


Watershed

by finangler



Series: Mizu Yori Aoshi [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, M/M, Space!AU, shkinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-15
Updated: 2010-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-08 23:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finangler/pseuds/finangler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 2207, John Watson went to war.  (Written in response to the shkinkmeme anon-prompt: SH in Space.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The characters of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to ACD and any other current legal owners; not myself, who has used them for entertainment's sake.
> 
> **Warning:** A smattering of Japanese and Russian words/phrases, definitions of which I've listed below. Don't worry; it's not full sentences or dialogue and it may not even be completely correct, anyway. Also, warnings for, ya know, the crack that is Sherlock Holmes in space.  
> _\--kun_=an honorific tag, denoting close friendship or equality (KOON)  
> _\--san_=an honorific tag, denoting formality (SAHN)  
> _-aibou_=partner (AI-bo)  
> _-yokatta_="Thank goodness!" (yo-ka-TA)  
> _-matte_=wait (MA-teh)  
> _-tadaima_="Welcome home" (ta-DAI-mah)  
> _-Mizu Yori Aoshi_=Bluer than Water (MEE-zu YO-ri AO-shi)  
> _-passazh_=Arcade (pa-SAHSH)  
> _-Arkyli_=sharks (ar-KU-lee)  
> _-tak i buit_="So be it" (tok ee bwee)  
> _-kracivi_=Beautiful (kra-SEE-vee)  
> _-zhal_="too bad"  
> _-drug_=friend (droog)  
> _geist_=ghost

_  
On this day, we stand at the threshold of the skies. Four great nations, to form one entity to cross from the embrace of the Earth to the out-held hand of space. And we shall reach out to meet it.  
\--Tom Murakoa, President of the International Aeronautical Association, March 1, 2159  
_

* * *

In the year 2159, the four major superpowers of Earth--Japan, the United States of America, the European Coalition and the Chinese-Russo Confederation--united to slip the bonds of Earth and began an initiative to terraform distant planets of a neighboring solar system for the purpose of human colonization. Twenty colonies were formed, eventually creating a loose confederation of planets known as the "Sector", and the venture was labeled a resounding success. The type of success on which the peoples of Earth, now ostensibly one people, could affix their hopes.

In the year 2207, John Watson went to war.

* * *

"Number twenty, _Ni ju, Ni ju_, number twenty." The voice was purposefully digitized to be melodic and pleasant. It shouldn't have been enough to rouse John Watson, as soft as it was, but his sleep had hardly been deep to begin with. His leg gave a horrid twitch as he pushed himself from the white sterilized wall that had been supporting him these last three hours. It was difficult to maneuver around the packed waiting vestibule--standing room only. The war had been unkind and long, and Watson couldn't even indulge in the self-pity he dearly wanted to when he looked around at the other shattered bodies and minds shoved onto every hard surface, including the floor. Men and women, battered and broken, some even more so than him. A few he had stitched back together himself, before his own injuries had earned him a one-way ticket from the battlescape.

The smell of the self-heating antiseptic coating should have overwhelmed him since every surface was covered in it. Strangely enough, it didn't, for Lord knew he hadn't smelled it anywhere near often enough in his own mobile surgery. It had been a luxury they couldn't afford.

Watson finally made his way to the reception kiosk, his left leg nearly a dead weight dragging behind him thanks to the inactivity and long waiting period.

"Captain John Watson." His voice was scratchy and hoarse, the result of breathing too much of New Apolla's sandy atmosphere, just barely labeled "Habitable" after a long, difficult terraforming process. There was nothing memorable about the place except sand and blood mixed together until the yellow ground had turned iron red. In retrospect, Watson couldn't guess what the appeal of the place was to justify the bloody conflict and the 18 months of misery he had endured.

"Please step into the scanning room, Captain," the vaguely female voice intoned, as his dogtags were scanned by the sensors. His own entry photograph appeared on the holographic screen, as unfamiliar as a stranger's. He entered the threshold, removing his uniform as he went. The triage scanner was very thorough, but it was so finely tuned, as to be completely non-invasive. A diagnostic screen registered his vitals, x-rays, and sonograms as he watched. There were too many wounded to be seen individually by doctors, so all were initially triaged before the most injured were passed through for consult. Watson knew he would be. The scanner was just yet one more indignity to be suffered. The whirring sound as it worked heightened to a crescendo pitch, reminding Watson uncomfortably of the sound made by the Miner's Grenade, a horrid little device that, once exploded, sent its shrapnel drilling into its victim, burrowing until it lodged in bone. Sometimes, even further still, as it had in his own ruined shoulder and hip. Just as he felt his leg was about to give out, the scan finished.

A slightly less melodic voice commanded: "Please step through to see the doctor."

* * *

"I'm sorry to see that we're not making as much progress as we'd like."

"No, we're not."

"I think perhaps we should increase your dosage."

"Alright."

"And…"

"Yes?"

"Perhaps you should start looking for alternate employment. Local employment."

* * *

Watson stepped off the strata rail, and trudged down the raised pathway towards the tenements. _Mizuyoriaoshi_ was a beautiful planet, completely opposite from New Apolla in every way. Where he had grown accustomed to airtight buildings, sealed to keep the sand out and the glaring black reflection of solar panels, his new, temporary home was almost completely water. Supposedly, it was designed that way by the terraforming engineers that had converted the planet from a gas cloud to its current aqueous state. Whether by design or fate, the Territorial Army had chosen well to build the Veteran Medical Headquarters here. It was an inherently soothing place, with the sound of waves never far away, and the architecture built to be tall and windowed and open, green, man-made parks dotted throughout. Multi-leveled platforms and a veritable maze of connecting walkways, bridges and ramps made up the dizzyingly tall, yet surprisingly open landscape. Watson confessed he found himself getting lost quite frequently. Just when he'd think he'd found the right District, Sector and Section, he would learn that his target was a level or two above, or perhaps even over, requiring yet more walking, more navigating that he was finding he did not have the strength for.

But it was still beautiful: white, and transparent and the culmination of all the promises that had been made to the preceding colonists.

Not that you would know it from his current living conditions, which were located on the complete opposite side of Seastead, this capital city he now haunted like a misplaced phantasm.

Constantly strolling holographic tickers announced the latest updates in cheery, rapid-fire tones in the four major languages, reminding him to conserve water, to avoid staying out in the sun too long, to buy food at Misuki's Market if he wanted the best brands and prices. As if there were no other cares to be had, on this world or any other.

The strata rail glided away from the stop. He shouldn't have taken it, he knew. It was expensive to take the silent, suspended railcars that criss-crossed the planet, and Watson was only permitted so much money while on disability. But even walking was a chore, now. He and many others of his fellow out-patients had converged on one of the less expensive hostels in the area. The owner was rarely there and didn't question the goings-on of soldiers with too much time and too little occupation. The walls were dull grey permacrete, and each room only had one tiny view screen, but compared to where Watson had been living, it was almost luxurious.

He pulled out his electronic key, sticking the slotted end into the key hole and allowing his thumb print to be scanned by the flat end. The name of the hostel was emblazoned on the side of the device, yet another reminder that he was, for all intents and purposes, homeless. The key was supposedly synced for his prints only, until he was either checked out or chucked out. He had his doubts as to that, judging from the shifty appearance of the manager. But he could only be amused by his own paranoia; he had precious little worth stealing.

Idly, Watson entertained the idea of calling his brother. It was easy enough to call a person planet-side, to send voice, video or holographic messages. But, calling to another planet was slow, and expensive, and frequently one-sided if you couldn't afford the technology for a live feed. It hardly seemed worth it; he didn't have anything new to tell his brother, and he doubted Jim would be interested in anything he said anyway.

_  
He was choking, dust and blood blurring his vision, sticking to his sweat, running down his face and into his eyes. It was unbearable. A shuddering, gurgling body seized beneath his gloved hands. The soldier was going to die, no question. But he couldn't just leave her to it, even if it became an exercise in principle, rather than practicality. He was so engrossed in the task, it wasn't until it was far too late that he heard the telltale screech. In his peripheral vision, he saw where it landed, a shining, ugly, messy contraption. He had, at best, 5 seconds. No time to get her moved away from its inevitable destruction. No time at all. Without thought, he threw himself atop her, his right side twisted down to shield what was left of her vital organs, his left side utterly exposed. The seconds ticked by. At best, 3 left._

3, 2, 1.  


He jerked into awareness as his whole body seemed to convulse at once. It took him long seconds to even remember how to breath, let alone how to control his heart rate. Gasping breaths echoed in the tiny room, bouncing off permacrete walls.

"Watson! Watson, are you in?" The walls were thin here, unsurprisingly. But, even with that, Captain Jaden Sandeep's voice was unbearably loud. Watson half-heartedly thought about ignoring the summons, but the thought of spending another minute alone in this place, with only his own breath for soundtrack, wracked him with anxiety. Making sure his healing scars were covered by his baggy issued T-shirt, he opened the door. The halogen lights, constantly running, nearly blinded him and Sandeep's silhouette was the only thing he could readily identify.

"Watson, what the hell happened to you?"

Watson refrained from answering with the obvious and instead chose to respond politely: "I'm sorry, I just woke up. What's wrong?"

"Nothing." It was said with a tint of trepidation, as if Sandeep now regretted disturbing. Watson could only imagine how bad he must look after the long trek across the city. "Me and Madison, we were going to go get some chow. Did you want?"

And suddenly, an evening of claustrophobic entrapment seemed almost heavenly compared to the unavoidable press of people, the cacophony of noise, the heaviness of *being*.

"No," he rasped, cursing his elevating heart rate and cold sweat. "No, I'm…gonna stay in."

"Eh, Madison will be disappointed," was the only response as Sandeep walked to his nearby quarters. Watson supposed he was grateful to have been remembered at all. But not very.

* * *

He dreamed again that night. Not of war and gunfire, but of faces, monstrous and grotesque, looming over him and when he woke, he almost wept with relief. There wasn't the opportunity, however, as his chime was rung and Watson was made aware of a newer, quieter visitor to his door.

The light was no less blinding when the door slid open this time, but it was no mystery who stood on the other side of it as light reflected off of shockingly blonde hair.

"Madison?" She stood there, tall and beautiful, wringing her hands nervously. The gesture was so unlike her, and Watson was immediately concerned. She had not been in the Medical Arms unit like him, but he had seen her often enough. She had been infantry and retained the strong and energetic character that had made it perfect for her. To see her nearly weeping on his doorstep piqued something cold and hibernating within him.

"Watson? I'm so glad you're in! I can't find anyone and he's gone and I can't go to the COU and," she cut herself off with a sob. Watson didn't wait to pull her inside his tiny room and set her on the small bunk that doubled as the only available seating. He grabbed a bottle of water on the tiny nightstand that he usually used for his caps.

"Here, drink this. Tell me what's wrong," he said as soothingly as possible. She drank messily and handed back the bottle gratefully, her fingers resting for just the barest moment against his own. It was the first non-medical contact he'd had in days, and he felt immeasurably guilty for enjoying it.

"It's Jaden! I mean, Captain Sandeep. He's gone! We, we split up after chow, and he hasn't been back." Watson didn't bother to ask how she knew he hadn't come home; Sandeep and Madison had long been "known".

Taking a deep breath, Watson responded, as patiently as he could with his nerves jangling and his hands twitching, "I wouldn't worry, Maddy. It's only been a few hours. I'm sure he just drank a bit too much bub" (as usual) "and will be back once he's slept it off."

She didn't respond immediately, but the confusion on her face was enough to send his already leaden stomach even further down into his boots.

"Watson," she began in an astonished tone, "It's been almost two days." And Watson would have wept himself if she hadn't been there.

Another two days, gone.

* * *

The Links were as ugly and rundown as he had expected them to be as he stepped off the platform and walked two levels down the stationary stairs. Not even the money to make them mobile could be spared here. He descended further down until he was actually underneath the rail, the stanchions like metrically intermittent trees breaking up the skyline, the dingy walkways and railings a graffitied path circumventing them. The underside of the level above formed a darkened, leaking canopy. It was dark here; the taller buildings and platforms blocking out a great deal of the light, even though night would not fall for several more hours. Flickering fluorescent lights (not even halogen or phosphor) illuminated his path somewhat.

Though he knew he should be paying attention, in this part of Seastead particularly, his thoughts scurried to the last few days. It was becoming a familiar condition: falling asleep, only to wake up hours, even days later, starving and anxious. Things he was supposed to remember evaporated from his mind like water in the desert and the slightest of noises was enough to send him into a fury or a panic, depending on whatever whim his mind took.

He wondered, dismally, how much more of his life he was going to lose this way. How many more moments would be squandered in a nervous haze? Worse, when he was discharged (and he would be), how would he hold onto those few stable moments he did have without occupation or appointments to anchor them?

No, he shook himself, that would have to wait. Self-pity would have to wait. *He* would have to wait. Madison was depending on him.

"Watson, he just said he'd be gone for a couple of hours. Said he was going down to the Links." Her face had turned to angered scorn as she said it. Watson knew, they *all* knew, had been warned upon being dumped here after the Medical Carrier had docked in orbit, that the Links was that seedy part of town, that seedy part of _every_ town, albeit with different names, where Shine could be bought. It was a horrendous narcotic: addictive, wasting and indiscriminate. It was exactly the kind of thing a poor, unoccupied soldier would seek out to make the hours pass and the pain fade. Watson had noticed, in the few moments when not wrapped in pitiful self-absorption, the signs of it in the infantry Captain: bloodshot eyes, a yellow pallor, slurred speech and a telltale twitch of the finer motor muscles.

Watson had chosen not to say anything, a choice he now bitterly regretted, not just for Sandeep's sake, but for Madison, who loved Sandeep.

"He goes to a place…uh, Chang Ku's. I tried to call him, but he left his sync in our room to charge. I didn't think it would matter, since he's always been careful!" She broke off, no doubt kicking herself. She shook off the sob, however, and looked at Watson resolutely. "I'm going to go get him, but I don't want to go alone. Please, come with me." It was said with all the desperation of a woman in love. Of *anyone* in love. It was a tone Watson hadn't heard in some time.

"I will not."

"Watson, please!"

"I'll go by myself. You'll stay here." She made to protest, but he cut her off immediately. "Sandeep would want you to wait here. For your sake. Yours and…" Watson stopped there. He wasn't supposed to know about that, despite the couple's lack of discretion. It was one thing to fool around amongst your fellow soldiers. Hell, it was acceptable to carry out long, dedicated relationships if it didn't interfere with the efficiency of the unit. But birth control was taken seriously, and to become pregnant without permission was considered a very serious infraction. "Well…for your sake, you should wait here."

"Thank you!" It was said with sincere gratitude and not a few tears, and without warning she leaned forward to embrace him. Watson couldn't help himself as he remembered what the velvet steel of another's body pressed against him felt like, and the feel of soft hair against his own flesh.

The sound of a siren and a loud argument from very far off snapped him back to himself, and he remonstrated himself for not being more aware. Soldiers no doubt frequented this place often, but with his limp and his ever more willowy frame, he was clearly an easy target. Fingering the sidearm in his coat pocket, he continued on. Prostitutes, in a wider range of ages than Watson liked to think about, began to line the edifices, and he knew he was heading in the right direction.

The holographic advertisements strobed and pulsated with garish colors that, interestingly enough, were not found in nature, but were developed to stimulate certain impulses in the brain. The advertisements for various brothels, drinking establishments, and every other den of depravity flashed constantly, and Watson could feel the spot just above his left eye begin to sharpen into an intense pain. He tried to blink it away and rub it with the heel of his hand, closing his eyes. It took several moments of deep breathing, standing as still as possible, before he could even think about opening his eyes. Thankfully, the lights and holograms seemed less intense. Unfortunately, two large bulky men had decided to take advantage of his momentary incapacitation to flank him on either side. They were huge and of a mixed ethnicity, their age difficult to determine due to the toll narcotics and general hard living had taken on them.

The man on his left rattled off something quick and harsh-sounding in what Watson suspected to be old Russian. It wasn't one of the major languages Watson was familiar with, so he kept his face neutral, communicating he didn't understand, but not indicating that he was particularly bothered by it.

"My friend here understands you've been asking for Chang Ku's?" the other to his right clarified.

"Yes." Watson had little experience with seeking out the dregs, and had little desire to expand upon it. They fed upon the misery and desperation of others. Fuck all if he was going to lie and pretend to be best haul-mates.

"If you're looking for some, you should know he's got the best. But, he doesn't like the idea of strangers asking around for him. Makes him feel a little…nervous."

"I'm not looking for him. Or his stuff. I'm looking for someone. A TA Captain. Sandeep. That familiar?" The effect the name had was instantaneous and much more intense than Watson had anticipated.

The taller of the two, bald and odd-eyes now widely open, delivered a quick punch to Watson's ribs, precise and professional. Clearly, not his first time at this.

But this wasn't Watson's first time, either. Rolling with the punch into the man on his other side, he tackled him to the ground. His leg gave way beneath him, but at least on the ground it couldn't collapse him, and the other man would be at a similar disadvantage. His fists hit flesh and bone and it felt *good.* Blood from the dreg splattered on Watson's face, he could tell, and he didn't even care. It would hardly be the first time somebody else's blood ended up covering him.

The fight, exhilarating as it was, didn't last long. Adrenaline could only take a man so far, and Watson began to feel his strength fading, and the blows being rained down on him by the first thug suddenly began to register. Watson made one last determined effort to turn and pop the guy behind him. Pushing with all his might on his good leg, he whirled around to face him, only to discover that he wasn't there anymore. In his place, was a melted face, merged and distorted. It was hideous, and Watson immediately lost his momentum as it gave way to fear, and then just flopped back to the ground like a heavy bag. Another hard hit to the head rendered him unconscious, and as the dreg's fist flew towards his face, Watson could tell that the monster he had thought he had seen had reverted back to its original form.

* * *

When he woke, it was to an unearthly glow that seemed to surround everything. His body shook with spasming tremors while his vision blurred and he knew, with a surprisingly carefree lassitude, that he had at some point been injected with Shine. Thankfully, it hadn't been a large dose, or if it had been, it was beginning to wear off. He was only wearing his BDU's now, his boots and jacket missing. He knew he should feel cold, because the room was just one great metal storage unit, filled from wall to wall with old-fashioned hospital stretchers, using ancient mattress pads on metal frames. On every one, some body lay, about a hundred of them, wearing different types of clothes, of different ages, different social classes. Apparently, Chang Ku's didn't discriminate as to clientele.

Lifting his head, which managed, impossibly, to be both heavy and light at the same, he peered around the unit. The walls at one point had been a metallic gray, but had been covered with dirt and rust over the…months? Years? Who knew when this hole had been first used for this purpose? Looking down at himself, he saw an automatic IV nestled inexpertly in the crook of his arm. The liquid in the capsule was the luminescent yellow that he had been warned about and the thought of it pumping into his system at regular intervals angered him. His other hand shook as he yanked the vial and its attached needle out of his arm. It stung, and a few beads of blood popped up. It was the least of his problems, however, as he swung his head around drunkenly, trying to find an exit. There only seemed to be one--a giant metal slider door on the wall to his left. Several rows of stretchers extended between him and it, the similarity to the hangar bays on a medical carrier filled with corpses ready for disposal making him even more nauseous. The door vacillated between being one, and then two, and then three. But Watson, thinking hard despite the shimmer the world was bathed in and the cold sweat beginning to drip into his eyes, was sure that there was only the one.

Bending his good leg (so very slowly) and pushing off the thin mattress pad with the flat of his foot, he managed a graceless half-roll, half-drop off the side of the bunk. The sudden change in altitude and position was too much for his poor stomach and he vomited weakly. There wasn't much in it, fortunately, and he was able to recover quickly. But the noise had attracted attention. Odd-Eyes, who Watson had not noticed sitting at a table on the far side of the storage bay, must have heard the clatter and retching. Watson could hear his heavy loping footsteps as he approached, clearly making sure his victims were all still subdued.

Watson's useless leg couldn't seem to catch on anything on the metal grated floor, slippery with the filth that leaked down from the other addled users' bunks. Weeks, possibly months, of urine and shit probably stained this floor. The knowledge was enough to make his stomach roil again. But there was no time, because the man was getting closer and in the sparkling haze, he began to look like a sergeant Watson had once seen, his head half-missing and his brains falling out. Watson couldn't hold in his gasp of horror, and was even more shocked to have it shoved back into his mouth as a strong hand slapped across his mouth. Before he could even think of lashing out, a strong arm grabbed him by the waist and dragged him under the bunk he had just vacated.

"Shh," a low voice hissed softly into his ear. Watson immediately began to struggle, but it was a useless posture at this point. He had been without food and water for who knew how long, his movements slowed by narcotic, and this man, whoever he was, had arms like a vice. But Watson wouldn't go down without a fight and his struggles continued, even if their ferocity could not. The man didn't seem to take offense, merely tightened his grip until he was nearly cocooned around Watson, laying atop him to keep him pinned down with his body weight. God help him, but Watson, lost in the tactile sensitivity of the drug, was beginning to grow hard. The new stranger smelled strongly of cigarettes and that indefinable but unforgettable smell of someone who has spent too much time amongst the dregs. But there was something else he could smell, his senses all spiked unnaturally by Shine. It smelled of cologne…but not the cheap stuff. Top shelf. Not at all what he would have expected from the gangsters and thieves who preyed upon the strung-out while they couldn't fight back.

"If you want to get out of here, be still." The voice was quiet, but there was still something in it that made Watson helpless but to obey. It had an edge of confident steel, domineering as any boot camp drill instructor's shouted orders. Sensing Watson's compliance, the hand was removed from his mouth and Watson felt like he could draw breath again, only to hold it all in once more as Odd-Eyes' heavy armored boot came into his vision. The thug approached slowly, as if scanning all bunks without feeling any great hurry or threat. No doubt, he thought that one of his dependents had had a seizure and fallen out of his bunk. Plenty more to replace him, after all.

To Watson's ears, his echoing footsteps were positively deafening, inescapably close. But the stranger didn't seem to notice. He simply crawled over Watson's prostrate frame, his heavy pilot's coveralls rubbing against Watson's thinner clothes with alarmingly delightful friction, to position himself closer to the threshold made by the stretcher's edge. From this angle, Watson could see him better.

The man was tall, taller than Watson, but unlike Watson, he was naturally thin and rangy. His facial features were hard to distinguish in the shadow, but Watson had the impression of clear, piercingly grey eyes as the stranger turned to him, lifted a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, and then winked boldly.

Before Watson could even think of a response to that besides gasping pathetically in the dark, the stranger swung his leg out faster than Watson would have thought possible and swept Odd-Eyes off his feet. He fell on his back with a thoroughly satisfying thud and before he could recover, the tall man had shimmied out from under the bunk in a way that should have looked ridiculous, but didn't. Straddling the gangster, his long thin fingers found their way to some pressure point or other in the neck and shoulders, because Odd-Eyes' whole frame jerked once, twice, and then he fell completely unconscious.

"Come on!" Abruptly turning back to Watson, the stranger reached under the bunk, grabbed a handful of sleeve and pulled Watson out. He stood up, but his bad leg proved treacherous yet again and the only thing that kept him from joining Odd-Eyes on the floor was the sudden fortuitous appearance of the stranger's shoulder under his good arm.

"There you go! Come on, _aibou_, we have to leave. There'll be more of him, soon." With that, they made a quick half-shuffle, half-run towards the door. They probably looked hysterical, like a three-legged race team at a fete, but Watson was just happy to get away from this hellish place. So happy, that he could only cry out in frustration when Grey-Eyes suddenly stopped at one of the bunks. It was empty, its occupant only recently removed if the indent was any indication. But there was something black and battered underneath, just barely visible from above. Grey-Eyes immediately unslung Watson's arm and dropped, no, _threw himself_ at the ground so abruptly that, for a horrified second (the one where Watson _wasn't_ trying to steady himself again without his makeshift crutch), Watson thought Grey-Eyes himself must be under some influence as well.

"I thought we had to leave!" he hissed in irritation.

"_Matte, matte_," echoed from under the bunk, as if all the urgency the man had been exuding had suddenly been resolved when, as far as Watson could see, their situation hadn't changed at all. He was about to argue, when Grey-Eyes popped up just as suddenly and enthusiastically as he had dropped. His eyes gleamed with wicked triumph, for all that his mouth was still set in a firm line. In his greasy hand, he held what looked like to Watson an old boot.

"We have what we need. We can go now."

"The boot's going to help us get out of here?"

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

"Right, _I'm_ being ridiculous." Sarcasm wouldn't help, he knew, but this day (he assumed it was still the same day) had gone to so many different levels of the surreal, he couldn't help himself.

Grey-Eyes shot him an impatient look before snagging his arm again and together, they hop-walked toward the door.

* * *

They had very little trouble getting out of the storage unit and to a nearby fire exit, for which Watson was grateful. Clearly the denizens of the place had fire as the least of their worries, and the sliding door was practically rusted shut. Between the two of them, however, they managed to slide it open enough to squeeze out and into an alley. Grey-Eyes seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of the layout of the den, managing to find back rooms and hallways not guarded by dregs or populated by too many users. They weren't stopped at all as they shambled out and away from the place. The alley, dark and refuse-lined as it was, eventually led back to one of the main thoroughfares of the Links, which wasn't any cleaner or brighter, but at least was wider and more-populated.

Turning immediately to thank him, Watson was surprised when Grey-Eyes lifted his hand and motioned for quiet. Being shushed like a kid would normally have rankled, but Watson was so _tired_ of having to figure things out and then becoming frustrated with his own lack of answers. He was actually relieved to just follow along for once.

They continued on for a few more sectors, Watson nervously looking behind them to see if they were being followed and trying to move faster on his leg, which was beginning to regain some feeling as his eyesight began to filter light better and the distinctive glow of Shine faded from all the detritus. After looking back for the fifth time, he felt a gentle reproving smack on his arm.

"Stop looking behind you. And stop running. The best thing right now is to look normal." Watson tried to comply, but being half-dressed with only bits and pieces of his uniform, limping and shaking in a cold sweat next to a tall, shabbily-dressed cargo hauler was as far from normal as he could imagine.

Eventually, Grey-Eyes seemed to feel like it was finally safe to drop the façade and he began to walk faster towards a waiting station for the strata rail. He lifted up his newly acquired boot and began to stare at it. He chuckled for a moment, before turning to Watson.

"I've finally found what I've been looking for. And it's been a fucking hard time of it, too."

"I'm happy for you. And your new boot."

"Sarcasm is an ugly thing," he sniffed, "but it's understandable, considering you don't know the whole story." If this meant he was actually going to *give* the whole story, he certainly didn't make any moves to go through with it. Just kept staring at the damn boot.

"What _are_ you doing?" Watson asked, irritation dangerously coloring his words.

The stranger gave him the side-eye, almost disapprovingly, before coolly responding: "For somebody who almost ended up an addict at best and dead at worst, you're certainly impatient."

And Watson knew he was right; he was being heinously ungrateful. "I'm sorry. I was just curious."

"Well now, that's the magic word." He smiled, slow and only halfway, casting his eyes slyly in Watson's direction again. "No worries, Captain Watson."

"How the hell did you know that?"

"Your name is printed on your prescription caps." Watson's hand reflexively went to his BDU pocket. Sure enough, the flat case of caps could be distinguished through the fabric. He didn't need to pull them out to know that his name and kanji were printed in bold, clear font on the front.

"Apologies. I was looking for somebody specific, and had to look through the pockets of those that were in there when the guards weren't looking. I assume you're not offended." Watson thought he probably should be, but he was alive thanks to this gangly stranger.

"No, no of course I'm not. Although, I wonder why they didn't just take these, too."

"I would guess that they have much more…profitable narcotics to sell than some minor anti-depressants."

"It's pain medication," Watson snapped, and then winced at the defensiveness blatant even to his own ears.

The other man didn't say anything right away, although he appeared mildly taken aback.

"Of course they are." It could have sounded condescending, but it didn't. But nor did it sound convinced.

"Well, you know my name. Who do I owe my life to?"

"Sherlock Holmes, at your service."

It was definitely an unusual name, but he had heard weirder. Around the time Watson was born, it had been the fad throughout several of the Territories to name their children using names from the original languages of Earth: Old English, Farsi, Spanish, 'Huatl, whatever had seemed to tie the constant flotsam of drifters back to some place of origin. Undoubtedly, this Sherlock Holmes' parents had been caught up in this desire to belong as well.

"I'm grateful. Thanks."

Holmes didn't respond, not really. Just gave a quick one-shouldered shrug, a twitch more than anything, but his eyes seemed sincere as he handed Watson a can of something cool and sweet-smelling.

"Here," he said, abruptly, but not unkindly. "Drink this. You'll need it." Watson had been without hydration or nutrition for some time. He finished the can within seconds, much to Holmes' amusement if the elevation of his eyebrow and the angle of his lips were any indication.

"Come on. We should leave here."

"Yes, my hostel…it's in the Labor District…Section 7."

"No, we can't go back there. Your coat is missing, which probably had your key in it."

"Well, I can get _another_…" Watson began impatiently.

"Yes, but they have yours. Which means that will be the first place they'll look for you." Watson seriously doubted that Link gangsters would bother to look for him at all, but Holmes had already grabbed his bicep (his uninjured one, thank God) and was leading him to the other side of the strata platform, for a West-bound line. "We'll go someplace safe until we can plan our next move."

"No, I can't go. I'm looking for someone. He's still somewhere here. His name's Captain Sandeep. Did you see him in there?" It was stupid to think that Holmes would know him, even if he *had* seen him. But Holmes had the air of a king, despite his shabby Tech's coat and grimy boots; Watson imagined that there was very little that passed on in this city that Holmes didn't notice.

The pause was long and inscrutable, and Holmes' eyes went very hard. They were handsome eyes, now that Watson had a chance to look at them more closely, and his embarrassing erection hovered in his memory with such vividness, that he forced himself to look away. He was actually surprised when Holmes responded.

"No. I haven't." Watson almost pushed the issue, but the strange, tall man had a deeply forbidding look on his face, and in the fluorescent light of the platform with the sounds of angry shouting and warning sirens going off not to far behind them, Watson was afraid to. He was grateful when the strata car finally silently glided in and the doors slid open.

"Come on. We'll figure out where he is later." A protest half-formed, but it got lost in the warm resounding echo of 'we.' He took a seat, stretching out his bad leg on the bench, which Holmes eschewed for standing and peering out intently through the view screens, much to Watson's gratitude. He rested his still-throbbing head against the cool plasma glass and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

A heavy hand on his shoulder and a light shake woke Watson some time later.

"Watson-kun. We're almost there, you might want to get ready. Unless you just want to ride around all night," he laughed.

"No, I'm. I'm awake." He attempted to get his leg underneath him, but it took a couple tries. Watson was afraid that Holmes would notice, or worse, take pity on him, but Holmes just continued staring through the view screen, which was currently projecting the current time, weather, and sites of interest at the upcoming stop on the plasma glass medium.

The rail pulled into a station close to the waterfront. The smell of salt and the rush of waves was stronger here. The station itself was cleaner and more well-maintained than any Watson had seen since coming to this planet. He had never been here before, but all the view screen windows had gone opaque and now flashed "Section 5, Waterfront District" as a digitized voice reminded passengers to take all their belongings with them. The warning made Watson laugh; he wasn't even wearing _shoes_ anymore. The shifty-looking pair got off the car and walked for a few minutes in silence. Unlike the silence that had been as much a part of his life as his own skin the last two months, he didn't feel as though this silence was some buffer between him and the rest of the world, but more a thing in common with this Holmes character. He felt at peace.

"You've fought in the Apollan conflict, I see."

"Yes," Watson responded, surprised, both that Holmes had known that and also that Holmes was trying to engage him in small talk. From their conversations so far, Holmes only seemed peripherally aware of (or interested in) what conversations in general required. "How'd you know that?"

"You have a New Hastings accent, which is a relatively cold territory. Unless I'm mistaken. Which I'm not, so it is."

Watson laughed. "It is. But what does that have to do with anything?"

"You have extremely dark skin. For a blonde man with blue eyes, I mean. If this planet is moderate in climate and your home is cold, you must have spent a large amount of time in a hot climate."

"Maybe I like traveling," Watson responded, this game amusing enough.

"You're wearing a uniform…well, parts of it, anyway. That and your, uh…" Holmes gestured at his neck before flinging his hand carelessly in the direction of Watson's own. His hand reflexively went to his own throat, surprisingly relieved to still have his dogtags, at least.

"So it stands to reason you're a) in the military and b) have been stationed planetside and recently exposed to the elements. New Apolla is the only colony struggling from military tension and Army occupation. Currently, anyway. The TA isn't generally welcome planetside, otherwise. I imagine you would have been posted on a carrier ship if you hadn't been involved."

"You've got good eyes."

"And a brilliant mind, but that's not really required here." It was said so unapologetically, as if it were a given truth and, therefore, not given any inflection, either of self-importance or self-shame. Watson couldn't help but be amused. It was actually endearing; like a too-serious child or a small dog barking at one twice its size.

"It's not?"

"No. Anyone who bothered to look can see you've recently been injured. Quite seriously, since you're practically dragging your whole left side. You've lost weight suddenly, as the dark circles under your eyes indicate. You don't strike me as a crash dieter, so it probably was caused by some trauma that prevented you from eating consistently. Your caps packet was VetMed-issued, so it obviously it was in the line of duty."

Holmes stopped talking, apparently feeling enough was said. Watson didn't like the naked feeling that had suddenly awoken and couldn't think of anything to respond with as Holmes' words "…anyone who bothered to look…" echoed in his mind. He concentrated distantly on putting one foot in front of the other.

It both pained and balmed Watson to realize that this grey-eyed stranger was the first person in a long time that *had* bothered to look.

It was only a ten minute walk from the station to an older, but very clean, clump of buildings that were literally built _on_ the water. Holmes headed directly toward one situated at the end of a long pier. It was late at night now, and the darkness of the sky as it rested and merged with the inky blackness of the ocean should have been disconcerting, but it actually reminded Watson of the stygian horizons of space, and it was comforting in its familiarity.

Holmes walked up to the door of the little house, 221B. Watson could only imagine that the larger house situated further up the metal dock was 221A.

"Come on in. You look like you could use a rest."

It took Watson a few seconds longer to climb the short steps into the house, but in that time Holmes seemed to have regained his vigor, because he was now wandering about the house at top speed, turning on lights with voice commands and motion sensors, while also shouting some vague welcome back at Watson.

This Sherlock Holmes character was clearly a slob. Reference pads and plastic writing sheets were littered over every surface. Even some old clothes littered the floor. Watson found himself drawn to one area in particular. The house, like most modern buildings on this planet, was built from plastisteel and two-way Glasstech. From the outside, the walls looked like extremely reflective glass and were almost impossible to see through. On the inside, however, the residents could either look out through perfectly transparent glass, or make the entire wall opaque to block out the light. It was also designed to project holographic screens on the glass that were controlled by touch. Holmes had clearly put this to good use; constantly moving and shifting on a huge section of wall facing out towards the ocean was: a scrolling map of an entire section of Seastead with a handful of pulsating beacons indicating specific spots, interchanging news articles from various e-publications going back some months, and Ident photos of several individuals, each one highly suspect-looking. In some sections, the nano-wiring had clearly given out due to abuse or overuse, because it could no longer depict any signals or images. So Holmes had simply *taped* bits and pieces of the transparent writing sheets to the sections of wall where he could no longer upload anything. The whole effect was a mosaic of crazy; clearly all the elements of some great strategy, but Watson was damned if he could figure out what it was.

"Holmes? What _is_ this?"

There was no response. Watson was so absorbed in the display, he hadn't notice that Holmes had disappeared upstairs.

All of a sudden, a scraping sound preceded a large crash by the entrance. The floor plan, with the exception of the upstairs, was entirely open even with the minimalist furniture, and if there were an intruder, there was no way Watson wouldn't be seen. Could they possibly have been followed here? Watson reached for his coat pocket, only to realize, far, far too late, that they had taken his coat, the pocket of which had held his sidearm. He mourned its loss, since it had sentimental value, but even more so at that very moment, as he stood there completely defenseless. All he could do was stand there and wait, hoping that he wouldn't be shot on sight, and that Holmes would realize quicker than he had that there was something not right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For warnings, notes, and disclaimers, see Chapter 1.

Holmes' house seemed to be a haven for the bat-shit insane, so it came as more of a surprise than it really should have that the intruder ended up being not even an intruder at all, but his landlady.

It only took one long look at the startled, bedraggled figure that was John Watson before she apparently lumped him up into the category of "unsavory" and immediately shouted out in a loud, piercing voice.

"Mister Holmes! If I have to tell you _one_ more time about bringing clients home, that'll be it. You and your dumping ground of junk will be tossed out into the sea and you can wait for the Salvage to come pick you up!"

Watson didn't get too long a chance to worry about what Mrs. Hudson meant when she said "client" before Holmes, changed from his dirty coveralls (and, dear lord, had that been a _wig?_), strode down the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson, here for the evening inspection? You don't have to worry. Captain Watson is a…friend, not a client. Isn't that so, Watson-kun?" Holmes slung an arm casually over Watson's shoulder. Everything in Holmes' previous interactions had screamed 'Don't even think of touching me,' so Watson couldn't imagine what he was playing at now. Not wanting to get thrown out into the dock, however, he decided to go along for the moment.

"_Captain_ Watson?" Mrs. Hudson turned her gaze back to Watson, a decidedly more sympathetic, if still skeptical look in her eye. "Well," she relented, "I can't imagine what they must be feeding you at the soldier's mess. No, that's not true, I can. I remember when Major Hudson was stationed here; he couldn't wait to get home-cooked food." She trailed off suddenly, and Watson could tell from the faraway look in her eye just what had happened to Mr. Hudson.

"Well, you'll be staying for dinner, of course." And before Watson could even confirm or deny it, she had turned and flounced off in a swirl of draped tunics and skirts towards the small alcove where the less-than-fully automatic kitchen was.

"I would like some noodles and beef, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes called out after her.

"You'll get what's made and like it!" Watson heard from around the corner. It was said with affection, however, and it made Watson smile fondly. Holmes must have noticed it, for he smiled his strange, lopsided smile as well and, with his arm still slung over Watson's shoulder, led him over to a low table and chairs.

"Mrs. Hudson owns the large property to the front. She manages this little group of houses. She's a horrid beast of a landlady, and seems to insist upon breaking and entering into my home each night to cook dinner."

"Truly a master criminal, then," Watson responded.

"Oh, the very worst, Watson-kun." And, Watson felt something tight somewhere underneath his lungs expand, just a bit.

* * *

Watson had always been a voracious eater, even before leaving home. Before the trials of medical school and the rigors of army life had necessitated that he eat fast and not always well. Even so, he outdid himself with Mrs. Hudson's beef and noodles, which were already delicious, but were even more so when he calculated what day it was and realized he had been without any substantive food for three days. He ate his portion and half of Holmes' as well. He would've felt guilty except that, even before Watson had finished his own portion, Holmes had stopped eating to simply stare into his bowl and push the remnants of his meal around his plate with his chopsticks. Holmes must have caught Watson's longing stare, because he simply quirked a grin before dumping the leftovers into Watson's bowl without asking.

"Mrs. Hudson's food doesn't sit well with me. I suspect sabotage. Here you go, since it certainly seems to agree with you," he stated, with a sidelong glance to his slightly-built landlady to gauge her response. She rolled her eyes, and Holmes seemed to absolutely relish the reaction.

"I'm out, Mr. Holmes. If you need anything, Captain Watson, just ask." She smiled fondly before walking toward the door.

"Notice how that was directed towards you and not to me. I think my landlady's developed a fondness for you, Captain. You should press your advantage and see if she would be willing to come over in the mornings as well with breakfast." The door slid closed quietly, and without a response from the poor beleaguered lady.

"Now! Watson-kun! Come over here, and tell me why you happened to be at Chang Ku's." Holmes talked like a self-repeating machine gun--loud, piercing and staccato. He settled himself onto the floor over by a couch and chair that had pretensions of being a living room. Watson, fat and lazy with food and exhaustion, limped over to him and lay back on the couch, extending his leg along the length of it to rest it.

The story was relatively quick in the telling. It had been an action-packed day, but Holmes had been there for the most intriguing parts. He seemed to disagree, however.

"An admirably told description. You have a good memory, and a knack for details. Two things that people underestimate these days. It seems that, with information so readily available with the press of a power sensor and a few well placed commands, an individual can get whatever information they want, pre-packaged and presented to them with little effort, evaluation, or analysis on their part. Nobody bother to _think_ anymore. Don't you agree?"

"I haven't really thought about it." Holmes didn't respond to the dryness in his tone, simply leaned his head back against the side of one the chair, his eyes half-closed. This, combined with his rather angular face and distinctive nose (poor guy), made him seem almost as unapproachable as a Classical statue. The effect was quite captivating. Just as Watson was memorizing the view, Holmes' eyes snapped open, his mind apparently no longer concerned with the shortcomings of society in general, and focusing in on the specific. His eyes narrowed and he hit Watson with a focused glare.

"How often did your friend go to Chang Ku's?" Watson wanted to protest calling Sandeep a _friend_. They had been in the same regiment, and he was Madison's partner, but Sandeep possessed many character traits (weaknesses) that Watson had instinctively disliked. His distaste was beginning to show on his face, if the questioning quirk of Holmes' head was a tell. He decided to just answer the question as asked.

"I don't know. Not too often. We've only been here about two months. No, wait. That's not right." Watson struggled to remember the details, but it was hard. The two months since arriving here, since beginning treatment at the VetMed, had passed by both amazingly quickly and torturously slow. Soldiers of all rank had begun to glut that side of town. It was difficult to remember faces and not uniforms.

"Watson! It's important!"

"I'm trying!" Regaining his patience, he continued: "Sandeep was sniper-shot while out on perimeter. He was lucky; he had bent down to pick up something when they fired. The projectile only hit him in the shoulder. It was pretty bad, but we managed to save the arm, although it had very limited mobility. They sent him here for recup, maybe a month before I… Before I came here. Lieutenant Madison is his partner, so they let her have compassionate leave to come here with him. So, he was here, I dunno, maybe three months total. I only ever saw the symptoms of it once or twice since meeting back up with him. So, I would guess maybe once every two weeks, judging by his skin discoloration."

"Hm." Holmes had pulled out a cigarette and made a wordless gesture for permission towards Watson, though Watson wondered why he had bothered, considering he had already snapped off the self-igniter at the end of it, the friction causing the damn thing to light. It was a bad habit, although not as horrifically unhealthy as it used to be.

"So, Captain Sandeep slipped away from his wife and his commanding officer once every two weeks or so to disappear for several hours, at least, to indulge in Shine."

"It was hardly slipping away. It's not like he had anything else to occupy his time." Watson didn't know why he was defending Sandeep. He had always been more of an attachment to Madison than a friend in his own right, but to have Holmes sit there and analyze a human being, a human being in danger no less, as if they were an avatar in a game unsettled Watson.

"Is that normal in the Territorial Army? Lack of supervision or accountability?" Holmes breathed out the purified smoke, turning his head away, but keeping his eyes on Watson's. He seemed almost to dare Watson not to answer the question.

"Look. It's not how it should be, I'll admit it. But, it's not weird. There's so many of us, and with the conflict ending, they don't have anywhere to send us. The best they can do is keep us alive long enough for us to figure out what we're going to do." It came out more bitterly than Watson himself had expected, but it was true, and Watson was growing so weary of lying to himself that things were going to get better, simply because they _had_ to. That there was no way a living being could stand this much misery without it finally achieving something.

"Did Sandeep ever mention what he did down at Chang Ku's? How he met him? Things like that?" There was no end to his questions.

"No. Never to me. Madison was the one that told me he went there. She suspected he was getting Shine there and wanted to bring him home. I went instead."

"Hm. Well, Watson-kun, it seems that you are exactly the type of person I didn't believe existed."

"Oh, and what's that?"

Holmes paused, grinning. He drew the silence out before replying: "An innocent bystander." Holmes turned, stubbing his cigarette against a flat tray, before leaping up, unfolding his long legs underneath him. "Now. You've been wondering what _I_ was doing there, no doubt?" Watson didn't even need to reply.

"I was searching the dens of the Links looking for one person in particular on behalf of my client." It was vague enough to be a provocation. Watson decided to indulge him.

"A client?"

"Yes, a Li Yoshiro. You recognize the name?"

"They were one of the first families to settle here, right? Every damn park and building here is named after them."

"Watson-kun, you are clearly one of the most observant men I've ever met," before Watson could feel even remotely pleased by that fact, Holmes continued, "Granted I have met very few truly observant men, so I'm afraid that isn't saying much. Nevertheless! You are correct. Yoshiro-san came to me, or rather, summoned me to her, a week ago yesterday. Would you care to guess why?" Holmes leaned forward with a daring lean, his eyes sparking as they hadn't since they finished their escape through the Links.

"I'll bite."

"A week before she came to me, her son Samuel Yoshiro disappeared." Here, Holmes pulled down one of his taped up sheets. On it was depicted the moving hologram of a young man, in his early twenties, handsome enough, although the moving capture didn't seem to capture much of his face, as he constantly turned away from the camera. The few seconds of footage repeated themselves several times, before Holmes took it back.

"Samuel Yoshiro is, as you see, not exactly a very public figure, and it seemed his mother wanted him to remain so. She asked that I look into his disappearance. Discreetly."

"You're a private investigator? A _geist_?" With all the craziness Watson had seen tonight, a private investigator seemed such a banal and sensationalist phrase to describe Holmes. Holmes apparently thought so too, because his face seemed to grimace in distaste before he responded.

"Yes, I guess that's what you could call me. Enforcers being rather few on the ground to be of much use to such a great metropolis, many citizens feel better served if they can pay for those who are willing to devote their time to pursuing their interests. Supply and demand, and all that." It was said with some bitterness, and Watson suspected some rather nasty confrontations had occurred in Holmes' own past over the matter.

Deciding to change the subject, Watson searched for some distraction. "So Yoshiro-san assumed that her son was addicted to Shine."

"No. No, she didn't. _That_, I only learned after talking with one of their housecleaners, who had seen him leave the house several times, each time coming back in a nearly hallucinatory state." Holmes lit up a new cigarette, walking over to his nearly man-sized tapestry of information. Watson pushed himself off the couch, grateful to see that his leg was feeling less like a dead weight and more like a functioning limb. He limped over to the wall, standing next to Holmes, only coming up to Holmes' ear.

"This is a grid of the Links, isn't it?"

"Full well," Holmes responded, bumping shoulders with Watson approvingly. "I won't tell you how many dreg dens I visited, looking for Yoshiro the Younger." He pointed out the yellow-beaconed marks on the layout which he had clearly made himself. "No sign of him. Until, finally…finally! I had a stroke of luck!" Here, Holmes held up his precious boot, tossing it lightly into the air before triumphantly snatching it again on its descent.

"Dare I ask?"

The boot was flung at him with friendly force, and Watson caught it easily.

"What do you think, Watson-kun?"

"It's a boot."

Watson could practically hear Holmes' eyes rolling. "Yes, it's a boot. But, what do you make of it?"

"I don't make anything of it. It's a boot."

"Really, Watson, you were showing such promise." It was meant jokingly, if the tone was any indicator, but Watson couldn't help but feel slighted.

"Fine!" He looked at the boot for a minute or two, shifting it back and forth between his hands, turning it sole-side up, and then looked down the top hole. "It's a hauler's boot. Well-used, so probably by an experienced cargo hand or pilot. It's top quality mould, so probably somebody who invests a lot in their equipment and footwear. Probably somebody very organized."

"Very interesting, Watson-kun. I appreciate your attention to detail."

"Thanks," Watson replied, hoping his cheeks didn't look as flushed as they felt. "Samuel Yoshiro was a hauler?"

"Not at all." Holmes didn't even look at Watson as he lit up another cigarette. (Chain-smoking dick.)

"Fine. You tell me what it is then." The boot hit the couch with a childish bounce, and then fell off, just to spite Watson.

"Really, Watson-kun. Don't be defensive. They were admirable inferences, if a little inexperienced." Holmes bent down to pick up the boot again and showed it to Watson.

"You no doubt subconsciously substituted your own military experience, which involves an ingrained care for your boots, into your analysis. Your objective senses were clouded by your subjective memories. It's understandable. It takes arduous training to refine your awareness enough to filter out the personal from the observable."

"Bull!"

"I'll show you. You noted that the mould was expensive quality, and you're right. This was not cheaply bought, but you'll notice that the brand, 'Mal3,'" and here Holmes pointed out the laser-etched label on the inside, "Is not a working brand, but a fashion brand. A prohibitively expensive one. You've been away for a while, so I doubt you'd know that dressing up as finely tailored cargo haulers has become the fad again. So, they're fashion boots, not meant for practical use. But, you're right; there are scuffs and bends in the shaping. Clearly, it's worn by a man (for you can see it's a man's sizing) who has a great deal of money to spend on fashionable footwear, but doesn't take the effort to maintain them well. But they're finely worn, you can see the shape of his foot embedded in the sole. Clearly a man of habits. He wears the same boots almost daily, out of a sense of comfort, either physical or psychological. You mentioned that the usage might be from constant work, but look at the tread."

He turned the boot upside down. For all that the outside of the boot had looked scuffed and battered, the treads were relatively intact.

"If this were used by a man who spent his days lifting, climbing and hauling, the treads would be practically worn down to flat by now. So, we can only assume that the wearer was a well-dressed, if lazy, individual, who liked his habits, had no small amount of money at his disposal, but was not burdened with the tasks of heavy work, or even extensive walking. Such a boot matched my client's son's description perfectly. That, coupled with his known Shine usage, put the odds of it being his clearly in my favor."

It was like watching a thriller movie, one where the ending was so sudden and unexpected, but when you re-watched it, you wondered how you ever missed the clues to begin with.

"That's…" Watson struggled for the word. "Amazing."

"Thank you, Watson-kun." Holmes affected nonchalance, but Watson could tell that he was practically preening with the praise. He actually looked _taller_.

"But it still seems like a pretty specious. Yes, they _could_ have been worn by a man like Yoshiro, but there were a lot of people in that warehouse, of all castes. What makes you sure they're his?"

"An excellent point, I agree. Which is why I made sure to double-check the capture I showed you just now, to make sure that the boot I found was the same one he was wearing in the capture." And sure enough, there it was. Samuel Yoshiro's constantly repeating image was indeed wearing the same damn boot, and Watson hadn't even noticed. He laughed at himself, because what else could he do?

He looked up from the capture to tell Holmes it was a joke well played, and realized that Holmes was peering at him intently, not laughing at Watson's obtuseness, but definitely smiling, amused at something Watson wouldn't bet knowing. It was an awkward moment, but not necessarily an uncomfortable one.

"Guess I'm not as clever as I like to think," Watson broke the still.

"Nonsense. You're just tired; it's been a long and dirty day. For both of us. I've kept you up too late, when you should be resting. You'll spend the night here, of course," Holmes declared, and then went about pulling out a self-heating blanket and a pillow, chattering on about how the upstairs was not fit to be seen by company (as if the downstairs was) and apologizing for the sorry state of his couch.

Watson took advantage of the activity to use Holmes' communicator sync. His own had been in his now-lost coat pocket, so he couldn't directly connect with Madison's anymore. He felt ashamed for having forgotten her anxiety in the explosion of activity. She was probably frantic, and he didn't want his own disappearance to inspire her into taking matters into her own hands. He looked up his hostel in the directory and after impatiently waiting to get connected to the wireless in her room, he left her a voice message. He desperately hoped that she was just asleep or out getting something to eat.

"Madison! It's Watson. I didn't find Sandeep. I'm sorry. But, I'm going to keep looking. I can't come back to the hostel right away. Don't worry, and please stay where you are in case he comes back on his own. I think I found somebody that can help..." His voice trailed off and he didn't leave a farewell, captivated as he was by the sight of his only ally flinging week old wrappers off of a pile of discarded clothes. (God help us.)

Later, after Holmes had said goodnight and disappeared upstairs, weariness hit Watson like a brick. His leg ached even more with all of the use he'd made of it, and his eyelids struggled to stay open long enough for him to take one of his caps and settle in on the couch.

It only took a moment or two to fall asleep, but as he felt it happening, he kicked himself for not asking the question that had been on his mind this entire time.

Why did Holmes save _him_, John Watson, of all the broken and tremulous shells warehoused in that filthy place?

* * *

Watson couldn't say what it was that woke him up later, in what he assumed were the early hours of the morning. It was an instinct he had quickly developed; that feeling of never being truly asleep, and the slightest change triggering him into alertness better than even the most sophisticated of long-range sensors. Blue eyes snapped open, and it only took him a second to discern what had changed in the darkness of Holmes' main floor. Holmes himself stood over by the stairs, peering intently into the dark of the room, directly at Watson. How long he had been there, Watson couldn't guess, but he instinctively knew it hadn't been very long. He was leaning casually against the rail and, sensing Watson's sudden awareness, gracefully pushed himself off of it. Much quieter than Watson would have expected for a presence so loud, he began to shuffle bare feet along the plastisteel floor towards the couch.

It was both too soon and not soon enough that Holmes was standing next to the couch, his tall frame towering over Watson's supine one. Holmes met his eyes for a long moment before extending his hand slowly, painfully slowly, to rest on Watson's sternum.

(Ah. So _this_ is why). It was perhaps a shallower reason than Watson had subconsciously hoped for, but Watson wouldn't say it was an unwelcome one, either. He carefully extracted his hand from beneath the heated blanket to drag along his own side, across his own chest, until it covered Holmes'. Holmes' seriously intent mien flickered into one of satisfaction, his eyes softening and his lips stretching out into a fond smile.

Without words and without ceremony, Holmes bent his legs and swiveled to straddle Watson's hips, taking great care not to put too much weight on Watson's bad side. He was already hard, and it didn't take any encouragement to start rocking slowly into the lopsided bowl of Watson's hips. His mouth just as presumptively covered Watson's own and Watson was scarcely less eager to accept it. It was messy and wet and Holmes must have possessed some endless well of energy, because he seemed to be in all places at once, kissing and biting his partner's face and neck. It wasn't gentle, but nor was it hard and maybe it wasn't everything it could have been, but it was already so much more that what he'd had.

Holmes' hand began to transition from unbuttoning his sleeping pants to sliding under his t-shirt, slowly riding the fabric up. The tingle against his lower abdomen reminded Watson suddenly what lay beneath the cloth. Holmes didn't know him yet, for all that he pretended to. He didn't know Watson's scarred ugly shoulder, hip and side. Watson didn't want him to see it. Not yet, at least. He covered Holmes' curious hand with his own, stopping its momentum. Holmes seemed to accept his shyness equananimously, even though he suffered from no such compunction himself; he quickly divested himself of his own shirt and tossed it somewhere near his pile of other clothing that littered various parts of his floor. In the low moonlight, Holmes' pale skin practically glowed. Watson hadn't seen such paleness since leaving home. Surprisingly, Holmes' skinny frame was not all bone and skin as Watson had assumed. He was well-defined with muscle, even if he would never be bulky, as Watson was (used to be). It spoke of training and some exercise regime, although poor nutrition hadn't filled him out as properly as it could have.

Watson leaned up and bit lightly at Holmes' collarbone, causing Holmes to give a little breath of laughter and a low, gasped "Ah, yes." Watson could feel long, dexterous fingers sliding into the back of his hair, holding his head in place. They weren't getting the correct amount of friction as they were, however, and soon Holmes had pushed them both back to lying fully on the couch. Watson could feel his heart pounding, a rushing noise in his ears, as his weak abdominal muscles twitched and tightened. Watson didn't have the muscle strength to keep up the push/push-back rhythm Holmes was setting, and Holmes seemed to intuit this wordlessly. He abandoned his snapping hip movements to push his hand down the front of Watson's now-open pants.

His breath was coming in short, desperate gasps, and his heart thundered in his ears, a rhythm accompanied by Holmes' hard hand on his cock. The slide of flesh was tantalizing, so intense after so long without that it was almost painful. He closed his eyes to try and take the edge off, but was struck with the sudden, insane fear that he was imagining this, all of this. He opened his eyes and saw Holmes looming over him, bright and pale in the darkness. Watson opened his mouth to ask for more, when he looked into Holmes' eyes. Where once they had been a peculiar, but beguiling, shade of grey, they were now empty sockets, hovering above him in the dark. Pushing violently with the hand he had been resting on Holmes' shoulder, he pushed Holmes away, harder than he intended, sending him stumbling into a nearby table.

He could feel the fear coursing through him, his erection wilting with it, but still throbbing in tempo with his adrenelated heartbeat.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm so sorry." Holmes' eyes were back to the grey they had been before, this time narrowed in annoyance.

"I'm so sorry, _aibou_. I--I don't know what happened."

A shield of dismissal and disinterest came over Holmes' face, so quickly that Watson wondered if it had simply been there all along and the affection he had seen, false. "It's alright. I thought I recognized the signs. That you were interested…" Holmes clarified at Watson's no doubt confused expression. "I guess I was wrong. Apologies."

Watson wanted to shout out that he wasn't wrong. That the sole thing Watson wanted, had wanted for all these weeks, was the feel of another body pressed against his. Another body to not notice his scarred, ugly frame and to _push_ into him without fear of breaking him. But it sounded so pathetic, so whiny to his own ears, his throat choked around the words.

"I'm sorry," was all he could offer.

"Don't worry about it." Holmes turned away, his naked back long and lean, and his voice casual. "I should have known. The tactile sensitivity, dilated pupils, heavy breathing; clearly the aftereffects of a hit of Shine. I'm sorry to have assumed." And with that, he turned and walked out, his stride measured and calm.

* * *

It took much longer for Watson to fall asleep the second time, but his body so desperately needed it. It was at least a thankfully deep and dreamless sleep. When he woke up, sunlight was already shining brightly through the walls, making the house seem, if not cheerier, then at least homey.

(How many days have I lost this time?) A hand quickly brushed against his chin revealed that he hadn't been asleep long enough to grow a significant amount of stubble. It might, he thought wryly, actually be only the next morning.

Which brought his memory snapping back to the previous night. He wanted to curse loudly at himself for making such a hash of it. Holmes no doubt had just been fishing for a bed partner, somebody to take the edge of adrenaline off. He seemed like that sort of person, prone to highs and lows. But still, even if that had been Holmes' sole motivation, it would at least have been a pleasant one. Watson almost did curse aloud, but was stopped by the sound of a cup being set on the table behind him. He stood and turned towards the dining area. Holmes was already up and his morning ablutions already done, even though he was still wearing his sleep clothes. His back was to Watson as he scanned what ended up being one of the e-periods. Glancing over his shoulder, Watson could see that Holmes was scanning the obituaries.

Sheepishly, Watson sat down at the table. There was already a cup of coffee and a nutrition bar waiting for him. It was a nice gesture, even if Holmes hadn't bothered to remove it from the wrapper.

"I'm very cross with you," Holmes said, his voice far too loud for the time of day. Watson jumped, his stomach tightening as he struggled to think of some excuse that wouldn't sound insulting or pathetic.

"Oh?" He delayed his response by lifting the cup of coffee to his lips. It was instant, but it was still better than rations.

"Yes. You had a decided advantage last night with Mrs. Hudson that you refused to press. Now we're stuck with store-bought breakfast, and it's all your fault." Holmes' voice was jocular, even if his expression was still wary. Watson gratefully accepted the peace offering, and responded:

"You already take enough advantage of that poor woman."

"Scandalous lie!"

Watson smiled, and continued to eat his breakfast (such as it was) in mostly comfortable silence. But when he was finished, and when Holmes had turned off his e-reader, the mood changed drastically. Watson, unsure if he should offer to just go and not mention the previous night, or to mention the previous night and offer to go anyway, fidgeted absently with the discarded wrapper. It couldn't have been more awkward if they really _had_ had a torrid one night stand.

"Well, Watson-kun," Holmes started, standing up. Watson looked up at him with all the attentiveness he could muster without looking lovestruck. "We must go and update our client today. It's been a week, and she's no doubt left me no shortage of voice messages, which would probably vex me if I could remember what I did with my sync."

"We?" Watson was genuinely surprised; it was one thing to forgive another's frustrating renege, but it was quite another to just pretend it hadn't happened.

"Yes, we. Unless," and here Holmes looked unexpectedly unsure of himself, "Unless you have something you need to be doing?"

Watson would have laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion, if he weren't so relieved.

"No. I'm in."

"Excellent." Holmes smiled, a full, wolfish grin that Watson had not seen yet. Watson doubted today would treat him any gentler than yesterday.

* * *

This time, they rode the strata inland, away from the docks and the waterfront, and towards the glittering reflective towers that made up central Seastead. They got off in the Ichi District, Sector 2, and walked a short distance, Watson's limping gait and Holmes' long-legged stride at odds with the casually strolling, well-dressed populace. Watson was immediately thankful that Holmes had offered him the use of some of his spare clothes, even if they were too large. Clearly, Holmes' client had retained the wealth and status endowed by being one of the founding families.

The living levels were actually several platforms above sea level, and there were interminable thoroughfares and covered bridges that connected the stalagmite-like buildings. Clearly this was a planet more geared towards the walking-commuter populace and Watson could already feel his leg twinging in anticipation. But the Ichi District was obviously wealthy and well-groomed. It seemed like everywhere they went, a thoroughfare would suddenly spill out onto a massive plaza, giant reflector pools and tree-lined parks situated in the open spaces. Entire edges of the plazas would be railinged and one could look over the side to see the buildings across the way or even several levels down. Well-dressed pedestrians in sleek, asymmetrical business attire darted about, hardly noticing the two of them as they walked.

Eventually, they turned down a particular thoroughfare of a quieter section, and Watson soon found himself in front of a very large, and very expensive-looking, house. The Yoshiro manor was older but well-maintained, clearly in the old Japanese style that would have been the standard of her ancestor's generation. Although, since the signing of the Sector Confederation Treaty many groups of all backgrounds had moved here, _Mizuyoriaoshi_ never lost its sense of history, if Holmes' strange blend of language was any indicator.

They were let in by a stern-looking assistant, and led into a tastefully bare office. Yoshiro-san was already present and seated at an ornate low desk.

"Mr. Holmes, I see you've finally received my messages." She was a woman of short stature, but had a hard, round face. Her voice, Watson fancied, could cut plasma glass if it wanted to.

"Yes, I have, Ma'am. Apologies that it took me so long to get back to you." It was a bluff, and a pretty egregious one too, but Yoshiro-san only nodded in a perfunctory manner.

"Who is this?" Her clear eyes turned abruptly to Watson and he felt suddenly awkward, standing in a room with two people he didn't particularly know, to discuss a man he had never met.

"This is Captain Watson, my partner. Don't worry, he's been working this case with me and is every bit as eager to find your son as I." Watson did his best to maintain a neutral appearance, but the utter change that had taken over Holmes was uncanny. Gone were his abrupt tone and curt gestures, to be replaced by a soft, almost melodious drone and carefully considered half-truths and niceties. He could almost be considered _charming_, if the subject matter weren't so grim. If Watson had thought he was finally getting a hold of this strange creature, he certainly didn't now.

"Yes," Watson found himself stupidly confirming. Although he was annoyed at being dragged into the matter, he couldn't deny that he was curious about this strange new facet of his…friend. Yoshiro Mater's eyes seemed to shutter at the announcement of his rank, but it was understandable. Families as old and vaunted as the Yoshiro's had held absolute dominion over their territories before the Confederation Treaty, and many didn't take kindly to the presence of a superseding army. But, if she was bothered by his presence, she didn't seem to give the matter much more consideration as her eyes turned swiftly back to Holmes.

"And? What have you found?"

"Ma'am, I wonder if you were aware that your son was…indulging in certain habits."

The corners of her eyes suddenly pinched severely, and the sides of her mouth tightened. She looked almost…afraid.

"What habits are you implying?" she responded, her voice taking on a decided edge.

"I mean that your son was in the habit of sneaking out once a week to go down to the Links to indulge in hits of Shine." Holmes stated it baldly, without at all realizing Yoshiro-san seemed on a razor's edge of losing her temper. However, the suggestion that her son was an addict of an illegal narcotic didn't seem to faze her as she broke eye contact and responded in a bored manner.

"I don't think that's true, Mr. Holmes." Holmes actually managed to look completely stunned.

"I'm afraid it can't be denied, Ma'am. There are…witnesses. I found evidence that he had recently been to one such establishment."

"I think you are mistaken, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes lost his patience and his voice immediately grew in volume and force. "Ma'am, I can't decide if you are ignorant as to what goes on in your own house, or simply delusional."

"Holmes! Rude!" Watson hissed.

"You hired me to find out what happened to your son, and now, because it does not match with your idea of morality, you choose not to accept it." At the mention of the word 'morality,' Yoshiro-san's eyes flashed dangerously, and Watson could tell an ugly scene was about to occur. More than that, he could feel the muscles in his hand twitching and his body attempting to shrink in on himself as air suddenly became hard to breath in. His nerves couldn't take a fight; they just couldn't.

Deciding to intercede before he was compelled into a full-blown panic attack, and therefore confirming the pair of them to be insane, Watson stepped forward. The movement of a man who had, until that moment, been simply part of the scenery, served to distract the pair.

"Yoshiro-san, I think what my partner's trying to say is that, through certain avenues of investigation we've been pursuing, we've come to believe that your son somehow found himself in that area of Seastead. Perhaps if we have the chance to analyze Samuel's room, his things, we can get a better idea of what he was doing there, form a more complete picture of the man he is, and clarify this whole matter."

Her gaze was still suspicious, and she was silent for a long moment, but she eventually nodded, and Watson and Holmes left the room. They were led by the assistant to an upper floor and into a room easily as large as the entire lower floor of Holmes' house. This room, too, was artfully bare, with a bed and various pieces of nearly sterile furniture. There were few personal touches, and it might have been a guest room for all that it spoke of Samuel.

"Well done, Watson. You got me what I was angling for. Clearly, we were meant for each other," Holmes said, immediately throwing himself down on the ground and shimmying under the bed. Watson blushed, both at the innuendo and with embarrassment. He had had no idea what Holmes' goal was in coming here, and had only made the suggestion to get some _space._

"Have you found anything, yet?" Holmes called from under the bed.

"No," Watson replied immediately, then paused. "What am I looking for?"

"Aha!" Holmes cried out in victory and pulled himself out from under the bed. "Something like this!" He showed Watson a battered and much used capture pad. He turned the screen towards them and pressed "Play." Like the original image of Samuel, the screen was set to show about ten seconds of video, just a casual moment caught in a non-ending loop for the watcher to relive.

This particular moment showed Samuel first setting up the capture, and then waving at it, his face humorously close to the recorder. He backed away, laughing and the new angle revealed another man, handsome and athletic looking. They both stood side by side, waving at the device, before they turned to each other and kissed. It was sweetly innocent, almost chaste, and the affection in it made Watson's heart clench.

"So, Samuel Yoshiro was pitch, then." Holmes sounded far away. "I have to think on this for a minute."

"What is there to think about?" Watson asked tersely, and oh, this was beginning to skirt dangerous territory. "Samuel Yoshiro had a lover. What of it?"

"A lover he didn't feel comfortable openly displaying, not even in the privacy of his own room." The words were innocent enough, but Holmes was a master of tone, it seemed. Watson didn't have to look up to know that Holmes was watching Watson's face for some reaction.

"Clearly his mother disapproves of the affair, far more than she does the idea of his possible drug-abuse, hence her very strong reaction to my accusation and then relief at my clarification. There are some who, even now, can't bear the idea of any perceived abnormality." The statement was probing, not at all, or at least, not solely, related to the Yoshiro's. Holmes fancied that Watson was in some way ashamed of his nature, which couldn't have been more wrong. Watson had been with both men and women, although he admitted his intimacies with men had been less…involved. He wasn't ashamed of it, but nor did he feel that he had to explain himself, to Holmes or anybody. Holmes' presumption irrationally bothered him, and, rather than reacting, he simply handed the screen back to Holmes. The file was still repeating, so Holmes clicked the "next" button, showing, not a picture, but a message scribbled with a stylus. "Missing you, J." It was juvenile and infatuated and Watson felt instant pity for this poor boy, so sequestered from life and so beleaguered by his own family that he took to narcotics to escape it. In all likelihood, Yoshiro was dead and, somewhere out there, his lover carried on completely unaware of it.

Holmes broke his fugue of pity by plucking at Watson's sleeve. "Come, Watson-kun. As charming as you are, I think it's only a matter of time before Yoshiro-san throws us out." Holmes hid the capture in his coat pocket and the two of them left. Impossibly, the room felt even emptier now.

* * *

They were shown out by the assistant, Yoshiro-san silently watching their departure from the threshold of her office. As they walked, Holmes rambled on about the woman's self-imposed ignorance.

"I see what you mean, Holmes. I do! But she's lost her son, and she _is_ looking for him. Obviously, his homosexuality caused strain between them, which she now regrets. Adding narcotics addiction to it was probably too much truth for her to bear."

"Truth isn't something to be _borne_; it's something to seek. Even if it's unpleasant. I don't _like_ that every time I step, gravity is holding me prisoner to the ground, but that doesn't mean I jump off a roof just to spite it."

It was true and the mental image was laughable, so Watson just chuckled and they seemed to come to an unspoken truce to agree to disagree.

Watson almost suggested lunch, before realizing that lunch in this Sector would be well outside of his pay grade. Even if he still _had_ his wallet card. Holmes seemed to be ruminating over something, and after trying to engage him in conversation with only grunts as responses, Watson gave up and decided to just look around for a bit and enjoy the scenery. The parks were idyllic, and worth the rail ride, if nothing else. The sight was so lovely, he didn't notice how his bad leg hadn't moved far enough forward for his good leg to circumvent. He tripped over his own limbs and would have toppled to the ground, had he not flung his weight sideways into Holmes. Holmes caught him easily, his hands warm against Watson's borrowed coat. Their eyes locked and it was a long moment that might have even progressed into something, had a dissonant chirping sound not erupted from Holmes' pocket.

"Excuse me," Holmes said, letting go, and reluctantly reaching down to pull out what looked to be a portable sync. A screen popped up, showing yet another map of some unfamiliar section of Seastead. At one of the 3-D street grids, a little red orb blinked. Holmes touched it, and a new screen was projected in the air between them. It looked like an Enforcement Report from the seal at the top, but it was in kanji, and Watson didn't read it well enough to be sure.

"Yes!" Holmes cried out, scanning the screen quickly, before shutting the device off, and almost breaking into a run back towards the strata station.

"Come on, Watson! We can't wait!" Holmes got about a dozen paces ahead before realizing Watson was struggling to catch up. He shortened his stride, but it was still piston-quick.

"What's going on?"

"Finally, a lead!"

"A lead? Holmes, what was that?"

"I _may_ or may not have an acquaintance who _might_ have the ability to write complex system protocols that _might_ possibly, probably, be able to scan any and all information networks for certain search criteria."

Holmes was being vague, so the legality of such a tap was highly suspect.

"And then your acquaintance _may_ or may not have installed it on the Enforcement Patrol's highly secure network?"

"Shush, Watson! We can still make the next strata!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all warnings, notes and disclaimers, see Chapter 1.

The Enforcement Post was back towards the Waterfront District, so the ride was long, and Holmes spent much of it tapping his foot, pacing, and smoking, much to the other passengers' annoyance. Watson periodically shot them looks that were alternately commiserating, apologetic, embarrassed, and defiant. Watson had already asked three times what the excitement was, but after the third impatient and vaguely rude hand gesture, he gave up.

It was less than an hour before they strode up to the imposing chrome building that took up an entire city section. The seal was emblazoned both above the entrance and on the walkway. Unlike the rest of the buildings in this section and Sector, the walls were not opaque, but reinforced. It had more in common with the bunkers Watson had been living in than the commonly airy structures here.

Holmes swaggered in like he owned the place, past the receptionist stuttering some vague protest before going back to whatever she had been doing. As they walked, several heavily armored street-response units were milling about, drinking coffee and preparing for their shift. No few of them shot Holmes dirty looks as he passed.

"Gentlemen, glad to see you at work today," Holmes called out, before sidestepping down a hall. Watson almost missed the turn, so anxious was he about the obvious lack of welcome.

"Watson!" Holmes hissed, suddenly appearing again at his side, causing him to startle. "This way!" They ducked down another corridor, turning their heads toward doors or each other whenever somebody passed by or looked like they might question what their business was.

They paused outside a large set of metal doors, which were locked using an electronic keypad. Not the most secure system, but still an obstacle. But not to Holmes apparently, who had somehow engineered his way in using a code he clearly wasn't supposed to have, if his quick backward glances were any indication.

The door suddenly popped, and then slid open. Holmes wasted no time dragging Watson in by the arm. He closed the massive door again behind them, and when Watson turned around to see what they had just broken into, he almost vomited.

They were in the Enforcement morgue.

* * *

Watson looked around at the rows and rows of dead, and was struck with the similarity to that hellish warehouse last night. Is this what life was? Behind the scenes of everybody's peaceful lives, were there just endless warehouses where the derelict and the dead were gathered to sit until they were claimed? If they ever were? When the time came, and Watson suspected (feared) it would come very soon, would the corpse of John Watson be stuffed in a bag and lain out somewhere to be forgotten?

Holmes didn't seem to be bothered by such philosophical thoughts; he had already gravitated to a corner of the mildly refrigerated room. The bodies were all bagged, thankfully. Holmes was scrambling about, reading the electronic labels, utilizing a stray scanner that he had arrogantly picked up from a table.

"Holmes, much as this is becoming a recurring theme of my life, I can't help but wonder what we're doing here."

"As I said, Watson-kun, I've set up a query protocol to monitor any incoming incident reports that met the indicators of a Shine-related death in this area. This morning, an unidentified corpse was found floating out about two kilometers to sea. He was nude, and missing his eyes and fingers, making identification extremely difficult. His DNA didn't match any in the local databanks and an inter-territory search will take days. But the skin discoloration and high levels of seratonin were enough to flag my system and forward me the report."

The description was vulgar, even though Watson had seen much, much worse during war. Watson left Holmes to his perusal, instead choosing to follow in his wake.

It was only when Holmes gave a triumphant cry that Watson quickened his pace. Holmes lifted up the scanner. "This is him, Unidentified Male Remains #23. Help me undo this, please." It was intensely morbid, but Watson assisted in undoing the air-proof sealant on the closure. The refrigeration had made it stick, so they had to pull the opposite sides with all their might before it exploded open with the force. The pair quickly recovered themselves and stared down at what had been found.

Even with the eyes missing, the face was unmistakable.

"Hello, Mister J." Holmes breathed.

It was indeed Samuel Yoshiro's lover. Every bit as dead as Yoshiro himself no doubt was.

* * *

"I don't believe it," Watson breathed.

"It is rather unbelievable. Which is what makes me think this is no coincidence." Holmes leaned forward, close to the body, studying the stumps where his hands would have been. If he was at all bothered by it, it certainly didn't show.

"Watson," he commanded, without looking up from his perusal. "Look at the scanner results and let me know what you think. I'd like to have a Doctor's opinion on this." Watson didn't question how Holmes knew he was a doctor, and instead grabbed the scanner Holmes was idly waving in Watson's general direction. The scanner lit up, listing a menu of various tests and analyses run on the body. Pressing his finger to the screen, a 3-D diagram of the body popped up in front of him as well as the automated-coroner's report.

"Holmes," Watson questioned. "This is…not right. It can't be."

"You're surprised by the sheer amount of damage done to the body, am I right?"

"Yes! I mean, bones that have been broken and knitted with various levels of calcium regeneration. Extensive external scar tissue, subcutaneous scarring. This kind of damage is sustained over months. Maybe even years. There's a stab laceration that's no less than a year old, and a projectile wound from no more than 9 months ago. None of these injuries were concurrent. In fact, the only sign of recent trauma is the dessication and collapse of his heart and viscera, most likely due to extensive Shine-usage."

"And yet, the smiling picture of our Mr. J and Samuel was taken relatively recently. Odd. Whoever killed him had been abusing him viciously for some extended amount of time."

"You're lucky that's not what I do to _you_!" The voice boomed from behind him, and Watson nearly dropped the still-running scanner. As it was, he literally jumped before turning a bit too fast back towards the door. Holmes himself jumped away from the corpse.

Blocking the doorway stood a man, perhaps forty years of age, short and hunched. He wore the casual uniform of an Enforcement Investigator, which was neatly pressed, if old. He sported a shock of military-short black hair and his sallow, rodent-like face was currently twisted in fury.

"E.I. Lestrade, good morning!" Holmes' amused tone came from somewhere to Watson's right, and he couldn't believe that Holmes was so blasé about being caught trespassing.

"Marisol told me she'd seen you skulk into the station this morning. I immediately knew you couldn't be up to anything normal and that I'd find you in here."

"Lestrade, that was actually quite intuitive of you. I'm genuinely surprised." This man Lestrade was not in the mood for Holmes' banter, however.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here? This place is restricted, which I know you know, because I informed you of it _last_ time." Lestrade stomped forward, his face turning an unflattering red. "And who the _hell_ is this?"

"Well, according to the scanner, it's the Unidentified Male Remains, number 23..."

"I don't mean the fucking body! Who's this?" He turned his head towards Watson, and proceeded to glare into his face, despite being several inches shorter.

"Captain Watson, sir." Respect and a direct answer were sometimes the best way to get out of uncomfortable situations, and Watson was pleased to see that was the case this time as well. Lestrade lost his wrathful glare, which quickly sharpened into curious suspicion, but at least his posture looked less like he might actually hit someone.

"Captain of _what_?"

"In the Territorial Army, Medical Arm. Please excuse me, I was told to come this way, but I got lost. This man showed me the way."

"And what interest does the military have in such a matter?" Lestrade had turned to face Watson, his back now to the corpse and to Holmes, who was giving Watson an enthusiastic thumbs up while mouthing 'Keep him talking!'

"W-well, the Medical Arm, and the VetMed in particular, have noticed an increase in Shine consumption amongst military men. We've been…trying to track down individuals who have been…supplying it. To our soldiers. We want them in prime fighting condition. You understand."

Lestrade, either through natural idiocy, or sheer disinterest in the topic seemed to accept the explanation.

"Look, we've actually been meaning to talk to your lot about this. Stop sending your soldiers down to the Links to get shot up with Shine. It may seem like a good time to them, and not a big deal to you, but it's us that have to dig bodies out of the ocean and the salvage."

"Oh God," Watson cried out involuntarily, because Holmes had just leaned down to the now-blue corpse, put his nose practically _on_ the skin and _sniffed_ it. Seeing Lestrade's head about to turn, he tried to segue his outburst into the next sentence. "Yes, that is awful. We completely understand your position. I'm…making tours of all the morgues and sending my report to my COU. We'll…" Holmes began to close the bag again with some care. "We'll get right on that."

Lestrade squinted at him for a moment longer, but seemed to accept Watson's bumbling on-the-fly description.

"Alright then. **You**," Lestrade pointed to Holmes without even turning. "I don't know what you're doing in here, and I'm not going to ask, but if you are not out of here in the next ten seconds, you'll be spending more time in here than you bargained for."

"Of course, Lestrade. Captain, let's walk out together." They did, Lestrade glaring at their backs. It wasn't until they had left the building and were several streets away that Holmes gave out a laugh.

"What?"

"You aren't a very good liar, Watson-kun."

"Some of us don't need to be. What was that about anyway?"

"Oh, Lestrade is one of the Investigators at this particular District. Not a bad one either, despite being too afraid to think outside the box. He can be useful on occasion, although never indispensable. Not like you!" he teased.

Their strides slowed as they continued down the thoroughfare, the levels slowly descending, towards the blue on blue horizon. Holmes gave a snicker again.

"What?"

"Oh, I imagine Lestrade was only so generous this time, because Mister J probably washed up on Gregson's watch."

* * *

They were almost back to Holmes' dock, when Watson first noticed. He and Holmes had just happened upon an intersection of the reflectively-covered buildings, the angles of which conveniently formed a mirror allowing him to see the street behind them. Watson reactively stiffened upon seeing the bruised face of Odd-Eyes about 15 meters behind them.

"Holmes…"

"Yeah, I see him. He's been with us since we left the Enforcement Post."

"Well, let's go get him. He knows where Sandeep is! He practically killed me when he found out I was asking for him."

"Not yet."

"Holmes!"

"Watson!" he hissed. Instead of turning around and confronting the man, Watson allowed himself to be sullenly led an additional few sections, before being dragged down one of the ubiquitous shortcuts. Holmes pressed him very closely against one of the building's edifices, no doubt giving somebody on the inside an amusing picture, where they waited in silence. It wasn't very long at all before Odd-Eyes appeared, walking briskly past their hideaway as if trying to catch up with the men he'd lost sight of.

Wordlessly, they fell into step behind him, flanking him, not all that differently than he had done to Watson the day before. But Odd-Eyes had lived too long in the dregs; he knew a trap when he saw one.

He instantly turned to push Watson down, clearly remembering his bad leg. He then turned to swing a punch at Holmes. It was a powerful blow, but Holmes had clearly had some sort of martial arts training, growing up on this world, and deflected the blow easily. He countered it with a slice of his hand to the man's throat. Watson pulled himself up, wrapped one hand around his balled up fist, and sent them both crashing down into the man's back.

Odd-Eyes lost his balance and pitched forward into Holmes' grasp. Sensing his disadvantage, he pulled himself forcefully away from Holmes, who had latched onto the sleeve of his dirty tunic. For a moment, they were locked in a battle of suspension; Odd-Eyes pulling one way, Holmes pulling back to go the opposite. It would have been an interesting battle of strength, but the shirt ended up being the weak point. The sleeve ripped off with a soft, abrupt tear, and Holmes was sent sprawling backward, falling hard on the walkway.

Watson caught sight of a flash of flesh as the fabric was pulled away. Odd-Eyes had a subcutaneous tattoo: little colored metallic spheres injected under the skin to form a three-dimensional design. This design appeared to be Cyrillic, but Watson didn't have a chance to get a close look as Odd-Eyes took off running once Holmes' weight was no longer holding him back.

Holmes cried out to Watson to follow the man as he worked to untangle himself from his own long legs and get back up, but Watson was already in motion, running after the dreg as he turned corners in a dizzying and disorienting attempt to get away. They ran up several ramp ways, Watson's ears popping as their altitude increased. A wet, awkward path through one of the reflector ponds managed to close the gap between them, as Odd-Eyes temporarily lost his footing.

Watson could feel his lungs contracting painfully as he ran out of air and energy. Odd-Eyes was still some distance ahead and was not flagging in the least. But, Holmes was somewhere behind him in this maze of streets. His bad leg was tightening torturously, but he kept throwing it out in front of himself through sheer will. Odd-Eyes turned a corner, and Watson followed along, only to stop in his tracks.

Somehow, their chase had brought them to The Flow.

Watson had seen, when he was younger and fascinated with such things, an old fossil-fuel car. It had been in a museum, and he had thought the idea of driving about _on_ a planet vastly amusing. Even more amusing had been his ancestors' idea of what cars would look like in the future; square contraptions that flew about randomly in the skies like some sort of car with no wheels. Automobile, turned aircraft. The idea was ridiculous of course; chaos would have been the only result of such a venture.

Personal vehicles were not all that dissimilar to the general design of ancient cars. They were relatively square, or at least elliptical. There were seats, and a steering mechanism and windows. But they didn't run on fuel, and nor did they fly. They were actually designed quite similar to electromagnets; their super-charged undercarriages were repelled by equally, but opposite, super-charged magnetic fields, causing them to more…hover, than fly. The sections of sky allowed to be super-charged merged and flowed throughout the upper levels of the cities, creating a sort of road for the cars to "drive" on. Watson _desperately_ wanted one, but they were ridiculously expensive, and not altogether practical for anyone living near the walkways, where such vehicles could not operate.

As it was, hundreds of the things were skating back and forth across a horizontal field of sky, bridging the gap between several of the tallest buildings. Watson looked around desperately, his breath painfully rasping as he tried to fill his lungs. Odd-Eyes had come this way, he was sure of it. But if there were a vehicle waiting for him, or an empty cab, Watson could never stop him.

Sudden movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Odd-Eyes was indeed running towards a black vehicle pulled up to and idling against the walkway, its windows made opaque from the outside. The door was open. Watson couldn't let him get in. Pushing every last bit of energy into his legs that he could, he sprinted after the man.

The meters closed in distance, and Watson could feel a thrill of victory in his chest as his heart pounded in his ears and his stomach began to clench. It was an amazing feeling; to _run_, to feel wind in his hair, to feel the competitive rush give him extra strength. Odd-Eyes was an arm-reach away. He threw out his hand, grasping at the man's coat. Odd-Eyes turned toward him, trying to jerk his arm away.

Only it was Sandeep's face that turned toward him. Angry and eyeless and scarred, missing teeth and hair. It was the most horrifying vision yet, and Watson's hand slackened as the thug pulled his jacket through his fingers. Watson was so frozen that he didn't feel his leg finally give out from strain until it was too late to stop it. He barreled head over heels at top speed, slamming his bad shoulder painfully into the metal sidewalk, his head catching it as well. It was agony, and Watson could only curl defensively around himself as he waited for the blackness to fade from his vision and the pain to subside. The car was less than 3 meters away. Even if it were 3 inches away, Watson couldn't have done anything to coax his useless body into mobilizing.

Odd-Eyes began to step into the back seat of the vehicle, the driver completely invisible at Watson's degrading angle. The man suddenly stopped, one leg still straddling between the two, and turned to Watson. He snorted a laugh, gave Watson a sneering wink and blew him a mocking kiss before climbing the rest of the way into the vehicle.

It was with helpless, desperate agony that Watson watched it pull away, sliding in between other PV's into traffic and following the Flow east, until it escaped Watson's vision. Attempting to sit up took a great deal of effort, and he cradled his shoulder delicately. Through the haze of pain, he could hear Holmes' hurried footsteps approaching as he ran towards him, before sliding to a stop.

"Watson! Where did he go? What happened?"

"He got away." He grunted, gritting his teeth.

"He what?"

"He got away!"

Holmes looked livid for the first time Watson had known him. "How--" he cut himself off, turned and paced a few steps, before turning again and striding angrily up to Watson. "How could you let him get away?!"

"I didn't _let_ anything happen."

"You were right there! You were so close. How could you _not_ manage to stop him!" Holmes' furious, carrying voice filled the street, and the surrounding pedestrians proceeded to give them a wide berth.

"I know you're crippled, but I thought you could at least manage to catch an injured, half-blind thug!" The voice was scathing and, had he been in any other state of health than the one he was in, Watson would readily have made a fight of it. But there would be no winning fights today. Maybe not ever again.

"God, _damn_ it Watson--!" Something of Watson's misery must have shown on his face. His harsh breathing perhaps, or his watering eyes, or his completely deflated posture. Holmes broke himself off abruptly before cautiously approaching Watson. A slim hand timorously settled on his uninjured shoulder, but Watson was in no mood to be comforted. He jerked his shoulder away violently, only to exacerbate the injury further.

"Watson-kun. I-…" Holmes looked utterly at a loss. Sheepish, embarrassed and…guilty, as well. Although Watson couldn't be sure if he imagined it. "I. Don't worry. We'll find some other way."

It was all the apology Watson would get, and he would accept it, but damned if he'd just laugh it off.

"Help me up." Holmes did so immediately, gently putting his hands under Watson's good bicep and at his waist until Watson was upright again. His leg trembled and almost buckled again, but it eventually steadied and Watson determined it would hold his weight. At least, until he got to a strata station.

"Where are you going?"

"I need a doctor."

"Of course. I'll go with--"

"No! I've had quite enough today."

"Watson-kun, really. I can help you get to the Strata station."

"I don't **NEED** help!" he roared, whirling to face Holmes, the pain in his leg be damned. It was an obvious lie, and his voice cracked as he said it. Holmes continued to stare at him, stunned and pitying. It was a sad sight and, even still stinging from Holmes' harsh, frustrated words, Watson couldn't take any satisfaction in it.

But nor could he stand there with blood dripping down his face and his arm hanging useless at his side.

"I'll see you later, Holmes." His voice was calmer, and Holmes looked instantly relieved, and then completely aloof.

"I'll look forward to it. Are you…?"

"Quite sure." And then he turned and limped away from the noise and bustle of the Flow, back the way he came.

* * *

"What have you been doing to yourself, Captain Watson?" Dr. Xue asked. The words could have been said with any intonation: irritation, anger, amusement, curiosity, wonder. But Dr. Xue had the ability to ask his patients any number of probing and embarrassing questions with absolutely no inflection whatsoever.

Perhaps it put his other patients at ease, but with Watson, it made him want to grab the man by the arms and shake him hard. (I'm here, damn you! Acknowledge me!)

But that was ridiculous. Xue had hundreds of patients, thousands of ailments. And Watson was just one of the many.

"I fell."

"Well, with the muscle weakness and bone damage in your leg, it's hardly a wonder. I think that's something you'll have to accustom yourself to. If you don't want to use a prosthetic, you might consider a cane."

Watson closed his eyes. A cripple. Not just physically but mentally.

"I'll think about it."

"Are you in pain?"

"Yes."

"I'll write you a new prescription. Up your dosage. That might help dull the pain."

And everything else.

* * *

Watson left the VetMed pharmacy, his new packet of caps in his pocket, when he felt a gentle hand on the crook of his arm.

"Madison?"

"Watson, thank God. I got your message, but when I tried calling you back, you didn't answer."

"Yeah, my sync was…lost. I'm sorry. I didn't want to worry you." And Watson felt ashamed that, in all the day, his thoughts hadn't strayed to her once.

"No it's fine. It's just…" her eyes teared up. "Can we go somewhere and talk?"

"Of course."

* * *

They walked a little ways away, settling down on a knoll by a large crystal-blue pond. She fidgeted with her own VetMed-issued caps pack.

"What are those for?" Watson asked. As far as he knew, she had been perfectly healthy when she came here, other than being consumed with worry for Sandeep's healing injury.

"They're prenatal supplements."

"Madison…"

"They know," she cried out. "I don't know how they found out, but they know. I was notified this morning that I have to appear before a tribunal. They're going to discharge me, I know it!"

Watson didn't know what to say. It was a possible, even a likely, outcome.

"I wouldn't even care, if Sandeep were at least here! Or even," she gulped, looking desperately at Watson. "If I just knew that he was ok. That's all I want. For him to be ok somewhere."

"Madison," he began quietly. "I went down to the Links. He wasn't there. I was at Chang Ku's, and he wasn't there."

"Oh _yokatta_," she breathed, closing her eyes and beginning to compose herself. He gave her some silence as she breathed in deeply and slowly a couple of times.

"Sorry," she laughed brokenly. "It's these hormones. They make me crazy."

"Of course."

"I just…I don't know what to do. I filed a missing person's report with the Enforcers, but they didn't seem to take it seriously. Said that he lived a high-flight lifestyle. A high-flight lifestyle? We've been together since the war started. I'm carrying his child. They seemed to think that was _funny_." She paused again, idly passing her pack back and forth between her fingers.

"I've been so lost lately. And so has Sandeep. Ever since we came back, it's like…he couldn't figure out what to do with himself. He said he kept seeing it, you know? The desert and the people. He would hear the noises and he would just…forget himself for a few minutes. Once, I swore he would have hit me, if I hadn't backed away quick enough."

"Did you ever have them?"

"No. I never did. I almost wish I did, just so I could at least know what he was going through." She shouldn't have. It wasn't a fate Watson wished on anybody.

"He was never…what anyone would call stable. The army was the only thing keeping him in line. I thought…I thought maybe a good home life, a kid, something stabilizing would at least give him something to focus on. And then he got on that _damn_ stuff." Her fist clenched bitterly around the package.

"Madison," Watson asked, "Did Sandeep tell you about Chang Ku's? Did he go there often?"

"I, I don't know. I don't remember him mentioning it to me, but he must have. I remember being so pissed when he came home that first time. Like I wasn't enough for him. Like _we_ weren't enough for him." They didn't speak for several minutes, and the silence was surprisingly uncomfortable. Watson suspected Sandeep was dead, although he didn't want to say it aloud. Madison was still lost in her own thoughts of self-doubt.

"Oh. I forgot." She suddenly broke the moment. "Some guys came by your room this morning. They had a key, but they didn't exactly look like friends of yours. I asked them what they were doing, and they said they were looking for you."

"What did you do?" Anxiety gripped his stomach.

She snorted. "I told them to get the fuck out before I called security. They did. They were some weird-looking dregs."

"Did one of them have different colored eyes?"

"Yes," she said, surprised. She looked at him more intently. "Watson, who were they?"

Watson debated telling her. He did. But, the memory of Odd-Eyes brought up painful memories of Holmes' disappointment and fury. He didn't want to think on it any further.

"My coat got jacked yesterday. He was one of the guys that did it. I think they were just looking to see if they could take more of my stuff."

"Oh. Well, good thing I thought to grab these then." She pulled out of her pocket Watson's wallet card and his e-reader. "I figured I should hold onto them, in case they came back." Watson was sincerely touched by the simple kindness.

"Thank you," he whispered, and they enjoyed the shimmer of light on water for a little longer, before going their separate ways.

* * *

Watson walked from the station to Holmes' house, dusk falling around him, setting the sky afire. It truly was beautiful. But it was difficult to enjoy it, thinking on Sandeep. Was that Watson's path? Would memories and flashbacks and hallucinations turn him into a violent, craving beast? Would he start to turn to hallucinogens and anaesthetics just to drown them out? How much of his now-shortened years would be lost, not just to exhaustion, but to intoxication?

And when he went missing, too long gone from his dirty hostel and his medical appointments, would there even be anyone to file a missing person's report on him?

His thoughts were still morbidly engaged when he walked into Holmes' house. Holmes had told him that he didn't lock the door, so that clients could visit, but Watson suspected that Holmes simply forgot to do it. The man himself was seated at a sterile desk pushed haphazardly against an inner wall. He looked up, startled, as if he hadn't expected Watson to come back.

"Hello." Watson wasn't sure what his welcome would be like, so it seemed the safest thing to say. Holmes had looked genuinely contrite by the Flow, but that had been almost two hours ago. It was difficult to predict Holmes' moods, and so far Watson had been of little use to the investigator. He would not be surprised if Holmes decided to jettison his dead weight.

"_Tadaima_." Holmes still looked wary, and quickly put his head back down, focusing on whatever was so captivating on his desk.

"Did everything go alright at the hospital?" The question could possibly have been an invitation for small talk, but Watson didn't think so, and so decided to answer him honestly.

"Well enough. I ran into Madison."

"Oh?" At this, Holmes turned his attention once more to Watson. "And how are things with her?"

"She's upset. Sandeep is gone, and she still hasn't heard from him. Somehow the VetMed found out she was pregnant, and they've reported her to the Tribunal." Holmes looked completely blank at this information. "It means court-martial. She'll be discharged, her career lost, and stuck with a baby!" His voice was rising with the unfairness of it all, and he took a deep breath and subsequent exhale to calm himself. "She says she doesn't remember how she learned about Chang Ku's. But she did say that he'd been having flashbacks. PTSD. He started taking it to deal with it, I guess."

"I doubt it." It was perfunctory and presumptive.

"What?"

"I doubt his PTSD was the reason he started taking Shine."

"I heard what you said, but I don't know what you mean."

"From everything you've told me, Sandeep was a man prone to impulse, to escapism. His stint in the army was the only thing preventing him from ending up in jail or dead back in his colony. I imagine he would have ended up on some mind-altering substance eventually, with or without the impetus of his military record."

Watson was shocked, and if the stretch of his facial muscles was apparent, he must have dropped his jaw as well. He now regretted his narcotic-addled chatter the night before as Holmes had questioned him, spilling half-remembered rumors about the other man.

"You don't know a damn thing about it. You've never met him. Hell, you haven't even tried very hard to _find_ him, and you're going to sit there and pass judgment on him?" His voice was rising again, and between his exhaustion and the pain medication, he didn't know if he could maintain control of himself.

"And you _do_ know something about it?" Holmes was laying down a challenge, Watson could feel it, just in the way Holmes' eyes snapped up to meet his own, from the way Holmes' constantly busy hands had stopped his typing and his whole frame _leaned_ forward. But war had taught Watson the hard way; not all challenges had to be answered.

"I just think there may be more to it than we can understand from the outside." His voice was calmer as he said it, and it wasn't necessarily a lie. Holmes' posture eased back a bit, disappointed and dismissive.

"Maybe." Another stalemate, it seemed. But Watson was tired, and his frustration from his fruitless consultation this afternoon made him jittery with the urge to _do_. His inexplicably ebbing and flowing temper was beginning to make him fear his own reactions. He was in desperate need of a distraction.

"What are you doing?" Odds were even that Holmes would either ignore Watson in favor of his work, or reward him for his curiosity. It all depended on how mad he still was about Odd-Eyes' unfortunate escape.

"Something very interesting," was his distracted reply. But he had in fact responded, so Watson took that as a bid to continue.

"Oh?"

"Yes," he drew the word out, as if he wasn't sure if he wanted to commit to the statement until he was absolutely sure.

"And what is that?" Would this vague questioning continue on for the rest of the night?

"Do you recognize this?" He casually held out his hand, and when Watson approached the desk, his leg feeling less stiff now that he had pain reliever running through his veins, he saw that it was a scrap of shirt. More specifically, the scrap of shirt Holmes had ripped off of Odd-Eyes during their aborted fight.

"Yes, of course."

"While it isn't as good as having our target available for questioning," and Watson flushed with shame even though there was no recrimination in the tone, "it does have the advantage of not being able to lie."

"What?"

"Every step a man takes in his life, every place he goes, a piece of himself is left behind, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes." It was a common principle, and Watson was willing to concede it.

"Likewise, the places he goes leaves traces of themselves on him as well."

"Holmes, I've watched procedurals. It's all well and good to get DNA or prints or blood matter or God knows what off of it. It might tell us where he's been, but it won't tell us where he's going."

Holmes barked a laugh. "True enough, Watson-kun. Which is where science, and I hate myself to admit it, fails. And where intuition and actual _thinking_, must take over. When analyzing this shirt, I noticed a distinct discoloration and smell. Do you?"

"It looks…crusty. It smells like salt."

"Right. You haven't lived by the sea long, but you'll notice as you live here longer that it constantly smells of salt here. The ocean and the air carry it and it covers everything. It makes clothes, particularly clothes that aren't washed often, very stiff and brittle."

"Alright, so we know he doesn't bathe and that he lives near the shoreline. That doesn't tell us much."

"By itself, no. But doesn't it follow that, with a little work and science we can discover at what point in the shoreline he considers a haven. And doesn't it follow that, because he escaped us thoroughly today, he will no doubt feel entirely comfortable going back to wherever his hideout is?"

"How are you going to track down the exact location? It's salt water. You can't tell just from some traces what part of the ocean it comes from! Water is water, it moves all over the place. You can't pinpoint anything specific from it."

"Would you say that the sand of the beach just north of here is exactly the same as the sand on New Apolla?" Watson froze. No, there would be no mistaking, not ever, the sand of New Apolla. It's taste, it's feel, it's color; Watson would remember _that_ forever. It took all of his willpower not to reach up and try to brush its (absent) roughness from his face.

"You see my point."

"Fine. But how are you going to do it?"

"I already have," he responded brightly. He gestured to his desk, and Watson saw that there were test strips and emitters and all the tools of spectral chemistry. Watson himself had had chemistry when in Med school, but it was organic, and spectral chemistry was something he had never truly excelled at.

"I analyzed the fabric for any number of spectral anomalies inconsistent with what one would expect from a typical shirt living by the ocean. What I noticed, was a high amount of tri-chloral. You're familiar with it?"

"It's used in desalinization, isn't it?"

"Right. There are five major desalination plants just along the Western coast. But, because tri-chloral has such a distinctive taste and odor, the general populace don't like to drink it until it's been filtered several times. The filtration plants are more inland." Holmes pointed to a grid map, highlighting the five locations of the desalinization plants and the additional five locations of the corresponding filtration plants, all of which were used to supply the salt-water planet with its fresh water. There were several square kilometers between each desalinization plant and its filtration center. These binary centers were themselves spread out along the shoreline, kilometers and kilometers between each unit.

"Our man lives along the shoreline here," and Holmes ran a finger along the section of shoreline, the sensors automatically magnifying that section of map. "But he lives closer to the desalinization plants, so close that the smell of it is attached to him."

"That's a lot of land to cover." Watson was skeptical.

"True. Which is why we must look for other indicators. Smell it again." Watson did so, noticing another more subtle, but equally pungent odor.

"Fertilizer?" _Mizuyoriaoshi_ had no land available for true farming, so, to circumvent any dependence on outside territories for food, the populace had built huge towers throughout the city, completely solar paneled, which funneled in light and energy into indoor gardens. They were massive things, dependent on synthesized soil and fertilizer, as well as constant ventilation. The odor around them was distinctive.

"Exactly. Only one of the desalinization plants, Plant 3, is within walking, and smelling, distance of an Agri-Tower."

Holmes was looking confident, even if Watson was less so. "Well…it's a start, I guess."

"Yes it is. For all that there are networks and signals and protocols, nothing works better than your own nose." Holmes winked at Watson, and even though Watson secretly suspected this was a waste of time, he couldn't help but feel more relaxed with a plan of action, tenuous though it may be.

"So, we're going, then?"

"Not yet. It's only just gotten dark. Nothing will be happening for another three or four hours." There was more that Holmes was not telling him, but Watson was too tired to inquire further.

"So what now then?"

"We wait."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For warnings, notes, and disclaimers, see Chapter 1.

Waiting ended up consisting of settling on the couch, side by side, and watching the threed. Holmes watched the news updates with vague interest, before turning the 'cast to a documentary on the mathematical principles of asteroid momentum and progression. When Watson could stand it no longer, he commanded the 'cast to one of the nightly dramas.

"Ugh, Watson-kun, your taste is questionable."

"What? It's well-written, plenty of interesting plot points, dramatic."

"Dramatic is the right word. I'm all for bizarre and unexpected turns of events, but no real person acts the way they do in these shows."

Watson secretly agreed with Holmes, although the disparity didn't bother him, but he thought it an ironic thing indeed that Holmes should be commenting on what "normal" people would or wouldn't do.

Mrs. Hudson came over as well, serving them hotpot for dinner, tutting at Watson's newly sealed gash on his forehead, scowling at Holmes for not discarding his pile of used and ill-fitting clothing currently blocking the way upstairs, and then leaving, bidding them a good night. Watson found his thoughts drifting to his mother, and for the first time in a long while, he felt homesick. He had been feeling lonely and lost and regretful, but never homesick.

This morose turn of thoughts seemed to affect the mood, because their good-natured banter about each other's taste levels ceased, and they ended up sitting side by side again on the couch, contemplative and quiet as the night grew deeper.

Holmes' hand had found its way to the back of Watson's head and he was currently running his fingers through his hair, slowly and repetitively. Watson had been less assiduous in keeping it military-trim since his hospitalization. It was still short, but was growing a bit unruly. The action, for all that it was intimate, should have bothered Watson more.

In fact, if Holmes were giving any indication that there was some intent in the gesture, Watson wouldn't have allowed it. But, it was less an affectionate gesture and more of a nervous tic. Holmes was already in the habit of keeping his hands occupied, fidgeting and fiddling with various objects during his meandering thought processes: cigarettes, e-readers, cups, whatever was at hand. He was now simply incorporating Watson himself into the habit. It was not as unpleasant as it sounded.

Watson was beginning to feel soothed by the gesture, when Holmes' quiet voice broke the darkness.

"Why did you join up?" It was his thoughtful tone.

Watson wasn't sure that such an individualistic man like Holmes could understand the feeling of duty, of pride, of belonging to something much greater than one's sole self. Even if he could, Watson wasn't sure he himself could even articulate it. So, he moved on to more practical, if still true, reasons.

"I had to pay for medical school. I had bills and fees and there weren't many hospitals hiring at the time." He paused. "I don't know. I wanted to see new places. Meet new people." Holmes remained thoughtful, his fingers not changing their tempo. "Haven't you ever wanted to travel?"

"Oh, I don't know. The seeing new places sounds interesting enough. As for meeting new people? Well, I'm half-convinced that there are no new people. Only the same old ones, over and over again."

It sounded melancholy, and Watson was unsure how to deal with this new, sadder side of Holmes. There were already far too many sides of him as it was. But it spoke of a loneliness in the other man, and Watson imagined that perhaps they had more in common on the subject than he had thought. The moment stretched on for a bit longer, not uncomfortable, but still heavy.

It was Holmes who broke it again.

"Do you think you'll be reassigned?"

Watson didn't want to answer, didn't want to say it aloud, but he did it anyway. "No. I'll be discharged."

"What will you do then?" The question was very soft, and, unlike many of Holmes' rhetorical questions, or questions where he already knew the answer, he sounded genuinely curious.

Watson knew he could say something. He knew that this was the moment he could finally talk to somebody, to tell his fears and his uncertainty and genuine _dread_ of the future. But Holmes was such a strong, vivacious personality, the likes of which he'd only seen in the very dramas Holmes so hated. Things like unemployment and poor health and job queues just didn't belong in the same sphere as him.

"Oh, sell myself to science, I suppose." Watson meant for the tone to be wry and light-hearted, but Holmes' fingers stopped in his hair abruptly, and there was no further noise from him.

"Holmes. I was kidding, you know that right?"

"What? Oh, I'm sorry. I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but my mind tends to wander and then I start to ignore everything around me. Don't take it personally."

"Oddly enough, I had already noticed." Holmes gave a light snort of amusement, before removing his hand. Watson instantly felt both regret and relief at its loss.

"Well, I think the time is approaching. We better start getting ready."

"Getting ready?"

* * *

"Holmes, seriously, open up, or Mrs. Hudson's going to have a whole lot more to be upset about than your dirty clothes!" Watson yelled into the monochromatic slider door that separated him from the sole bathroom in the house. He desperately needed to go, and had already been _using_ the bathroom to change into this stupid ensemble when Holmes had interrupted and summarily ejected him from it.

As it turned out, the reason Holmes kept such a stockpile of clothes that didn't fit him was not because of poverty and raiding donation dumps, but because he apparently liked to disguise himself when performing surveillance on various parts of the planet. It made sense; Holmes had been dirty and shabby when they had first met and now it seemed there was never a time when he wasn't immaculately flash. But, this was crazy.

"Watson-kun, you'll never fit in down by the slots. You'll stick out. Besides, our target has already seen you several times. You need to make yourself inconspicuous!" And so, now Watson was wearing a dirty hauler jumpsuit and boots, as well as a high collared jacket. He had gone into the bathroom to change; even despite their aborted intimacy, Watson still couldn't stand the thought of Holmes seeing his not fully-healed body. Watson himself couldn't stand looking at it.

Holmes had then pounded obnoxiously on the door, calling him out and into the den again. "I'm not wearing that," Watson had immediately responded. Holmes, it seemed, was a bit of a dramatist himself, displaying a collection of colored contact lenses, threed-quality make-up, the works.

"Watson, we've discussed this." Sighing, Watson sat down to comply, and Holmes settled down beside him on the floor. It reminded him of when he'd been a kid, trying on his dad's old army uniform with his brother as they played war. After a short time, Holmes got up to appropriate the bathroom and Watson took the opportunity to put in another call to Madison's room. She was out again, or at least, wasn't answering, for which Watson couldn't blame her. Her life was changing, and for reasons that were outside of her control. Husband and career gone, a baby on the way. He wouldn't have been in the mood to talk, either.

He gave up with a sigh, feeling oddly adrift, and wondered if this rout was a good idea, after all. Perhaps they should just go back to Chang Ku's and wait for Odd-Eyes' return.

"Holmes! I mean it! You're not the only one in this house!" He was about to pound on it again, when the door slid abruptly into the wall, Holmes already stepping across the threshold. Their noses were less than a few inches away. Holmes had temporarily dyed his hair blonde. His eyes were no longer gray but green, and he had somehow managed to hunch himself to be about half a foot shorter. He looked ridiculous, but certainly unrecognizable.

"Sorry about that," he replied blithely, not taking his eyes off Watson's face. The moment was charged and Holmes broke it by sidestepping Watson abruptly.

"That's a good look for you!" Holmes called out brightly to him, gesturing toward his lower face. Watson rolled his eyes and continued into the bathroom. He himself now had darker hair with brown eyes and a mustache. (Actually, the mustache wasn't half bad…)

In his reflection, the spasmodic tremors of his hands were suddenly visible. Watson swore violently; he couldn't have picked a worse time to fall apart. The anticipation was messing with him. He flinched at the memory of his failure that afternoon. Frantically rummaging through his discarded clothes, he found his cap pack from earlier, struggling clumsily to pop out one of the dissolvables as his hands vibrated. He shoved it under his tongue and waited.

It was never going to get better. This was going to be his life from now on. Instead of sneaking about and seeking out illegal street narcotics, he was going to be shuffling into the file at the VetMed pharmacy, getting his weekly allotment of drugs just to get him through the _hours_. And even then, only the hours he managed to stay awake for. He almost sobbed, but held it in.

He had work to do, and Holmes was depending on him

* * *

Watson hadn't thought that there could be a place worse than the Links, and was dismayed to discover that he was wrong. The Slots abutted the water of the shoreline, not as a graceful, gradual transition from metal to earth to water, but as craggy, dirty hollows where floating landing pads stagnated. They were used by the ferries for landing and unloading as they went to and fro from the orbital carrier docking stations. Industrial towers loomed, squat and ugly and loud, as water was pumped, treated and then ejected by hi-flow pipeline. A sub-community of service industries had sprouted and festered to serve the haulers, smugglers and techs that populated the area. Warehouses, filthy restaurants and whorehouses were built in between and under the complex networks of pipelines, in the shadow of the desalinization plant.

Holmes took to this new environment with much more ease than Watson did. It spoke of practice and pattern; clearly Holmes had been here before. Holmes had changed his gait to a hunched, scrabbling stumble, looking almost as ungainly as Watson did naturally.

"Remember, Watson. My name is Jashya Morris. Yours is Joe Veder. We're haulmates. We just hit atmo, and we're looking for a good time," Holmes had coached him on the way over, and Watson had simply decided to just remain as silent as possible.

As it was, Watson was standing in a pool of something filthy as he and Holmes waited in the shadow of a stall, selling something greasy and unsavory, the smell of tri-chloral almost choking him. It was late, but the streets were still relatively empty, the haulers apparently not having flooded the make-shift city, yet.

Holmes was doing a good job pretending to look bored and disinterested, but there were telltale movements with his eyes that let Watson know he was looking for someone amongst the crowd. So far, they had had little luck; Odd-Eyes had not appeared. But then again Watson had hardly expected him to.

He opened his mouth to suggest that they move on, when he felt a slight pressure at his back pocket. Whirling fast, he quickly had in his grasp the dirtiest kid he'd ever seen.

"Little thief!" he hissed at the brat. "Get lost!"

The boy, and he had to be called a boy because he couldn't have been much older than 12, snarled savagely, pulling on his wrist. He wore clothes a size too small, and his face and hair were covered with sludge as well as the build-up of not having washed in far too long.

"Wiggins, what is this?" Holmes suddenly intervened.

"You know this brat, Holmes?"

"Hey, san, I didn't know he was with you!" The boy ignored Watson, appealing to Holmes instead.

"Watson, you can let him go. Wiggins is our spy. For tonight, anyway," Holmes said wryly. Watson loosened his grip on the arm and the boy snatched it away in a highly aggrieved manner, as if it had been Watson who had been trying to steal the kid's wallet.

"Did you do what I asked, brat?" Oddly enough, it almost sounded affectionate.

"Yeah, I asked around. Although I didn't need to. Everyone around here knows Vasiliy. It's not like he goes out of his way to be subtle or anything."

"Interesting. And what is he known for around here?"

Wiggins looked at Holmes positively dumbfounded. "You don't know?"

"I would like for you to tell me." Holmes said it patiently, much more patiently than Watson would have thought possible.

"He runs a _passazh_ just up that way, right under the plant, although I don't know where exactly. I make it my business not to be around guys like that."

"Guys like what?" Watson asked.

"_Arkyli._ They run that side of the Slots. I don't go on that side if I can help it."

"And nor should you. Good job, brat. Here you go." Holmes tossed the kid a slider, probably worth 20 creds. The boy looked ecstatic, gave an odd little salute, and than ran off.

"Holmes, who was that kid?"

"That was Wiggins, one of my little soldiers."

"Soldiers?"

"Well, I can't be everywhere at once, but I do try to at least have eyes everywhere. Sometimes, there's certain information that can't be found without the help of a local." They began a slow, meandering walk to the pyramid-shaped shadow that was Desal Plant-3. "Wiggins and a few other gutterpunks are in my sporadic employ. They go places I can't go and take care of small inquiries on my behalf. In exchange, I throw them some creds, which they most likely redeem for useless, impulsive items that will in no way improve their situation. But, it also keeps them from turning to prostitution or violent crime to get those things, so I imagine it all balances out in the end."

It was sweet, in its own practical, dystopian way.

"I alerted Wiggins while you were…busy, and told him to lay the thick around about a half-blind man with a subcue living along the shoreline, and clearly my hunch paid off. We now have a name," Holmes smiled.

"And a location," Watson reminded, thoroughly impressed and exhilarated to go from nothing to something in the space of a few hours. Despite the drugs pumping through his veins, reminding him of his own disintegrating body, Watson felt like he could do _anything_ tonight, with Holmes guiding the way.

"And a location," Holmes agreed, mouth stretching with satisfaction.

"But what was that word Wiggins said? It sounded like a Russian dialect."

"It is. It's a planetside subsidiary of the Blinders. No doubt you've heard of _them_."

Watson had; there were few who hadn't. They had been called by many names throughout history: raiders, reavers, pirates, highwaymen, rumrunners, gangbangers. All names for the same thing, the same type of predator. This particular incarnation had discovered very quickly in the adolescence of space travel that most carriers preferred to consistently follow the same coordinates when traveling back and forth with cargo and passengers. The carriers frequently used the gravitational pull of nearby planets to slingshot themselves across parsecs toward their intended destination. Blinders had taken to hiding just within atmo of planets with high magnetic and gravitational fields which blocked the long-range sensors of the mammoth, slow-moving carriers, creating huge blind spots in their defenses. From there, they would surprise the carriers, take out any weaponry they might have, and force entry.

The results were usually brutal. Theft and destruction were their trademarks. Rape, murder and torture were others.

The Territorial Army had done their best to eradicate and dismantle their operations, but when the interstitial space became too hot, they had taken to the planets, developing crude, but pervasive criminal underground enterprises. It was of no surprise to Watson that Odd-Eyes would be associated with such cruelty. And the Slots, with their easy access to the Docking Stations, would be an ideal breeding ground for it.

"Yes, I have." Watson replied.

"Good. Then I don't need to warn you about being careful."

"No, no you don't," Watson responded savagely. Blinders were worst of dregs. They traded in, and thrived on, the suffering and misery of others, believing the interstitial and everything found in it to be built for only them. They belonged to a world of savagery that even war couldn't match.

They slowly and quietly made their way toward the Desal plant. It was its own little island, a small, shallow channel of water separating it from the shoreline, like an ancient moat. The place was monitored of course, with a huge fence surrounding the perimeter. There didn't appear to be any buildings within a significant distance, nor did there look to be any holes in the fence.

"Holmes, I think your little spy was wrong."

"No, no I don't think so." At which, Holmes dropped from the railinged gateway of the crossing bridge to slide along the craggy bank. He threw himself into the water, which only came up to mid-thigh.

"Come on, Watson-kun. The water's fine."

"The water's filthy," Watson groused, but slid down the bank as well, until he was in the water and sloshing alongside Holmes the 100 meters or so, their progress hidden by the shadow of the bridge over them. Several pipes were suspended back and forth across the channel, not all of them from the Desal plant. Some bore the distinctive trademark of the Agri-towers, meaning that they carried nutrient-enriched, synthesized shit, much of it leaking from holes in the poorly maintained pipeline and into the water they were trudging through. Watson tried very hard not to vomit.

But the pipes seemed to confirm Holmes' theory, and he pressed on, even more energized. Eventually they made it across and they found themselves climbing the opposite rocky shore to be directly in front of the foundation of the Desal plant. There were clearly several sub-basements, and the rock meant to encase them had been slowly eroding away, revealing them to the pair. It didn't take Holmes long to find a vent that had probably originally been used to cool the treatment engines.

"Look, Captain." And sure enough, the footsteps of thousands had also eroded a path to the vent cover which, with Holmes and Watson tugging on it, swung wide open, becoming an impromptu door.

They both looked at each other, and then back into the dark din. Taking a deep breath, they stepped through together.

* * *

They hadn't walked too long when the dark dripping tunnel abruptly spilled out into a giant underground permacrete cavern. It had probably once been a storage basement, or even a water holding tank, but it had long ago fallen into disuse. Now, it was a shanty-town made up of shacks and cells, built right on top of the other, out of scrap and refuse. There was no real floor, as it was flooded with offal and the ocean, slowly creeping in. The walls were muraled with graffiti, blood and waste.

All around them, the roughest of people were walking, fighting, swearing. Watson would have been hard-pressed to identify just how many languages and sub-dialects there were. He heard the deceptively sweet lilting and harsh consonants of the New Apollan dialect and immediately had to fight the urge to punch somebody.

Holmes grasped his sleeve, pulling Watson forward, and they carefully climbed down the steep slope down into the circular den. Watson could feel water dripping down on them from above.

"What is this place?" Watson whispered, as loud as he dared. Already, dregs and the seedier haulers were casting them suspicious glances.

"It's a _passazh_. Those who have the taste for it come here for…recreation."

"What kind of recreation?" Watson asked harshly. He could hear a woman wailing somewhere, deep in the recesses of one of the lean-tos.

"This is a place one comes to purchase a body, no questions asked, to do whatever they like to it. Sometimes, they come just to have another person to beat, to maim, even to kill. Sometimes they're used for more predictable, but no less horrific reasons."

(Prostitution. Torture.)

It made Watson's teeth grit just to breath this air.

"Watson," Holmes said, squeezing his arm suddenly, but seriously. "It's important that you don't lose your temper. I know this place sickens you; it sickens me too. But I have a theory. And I must see it through. If you can't go through with this, I ask that you go back outside, and wait for me."

Watson answered immediately. "I won't leave you." _Not here_, he meant to qualify, but didn't.

"I was hoping you'd say that," Holmes replied, pleased and…fond. It was his most handsome look yet.

* * *

They settled themselves as out of sight as possible, propped up against one of the lean-to's, the rhythmic grunting from inside methodically gaining volume immediately giving away what the occupants were doing. Or rather, what one of the occupants was doing to the other. They tried not to give any indication that this was anything out of the ordinary. In front of them, a hauler had begun an impromptu fight with a man he had bought. The other haulers were urging him on, laughing and jeering as the unequal match continued. It wasn't a fight, but a beating. A slow, drawn out death. Watson couldn't watch any longer. He turned his face away, only to lock eyes with a dark, grubby Blinder peering back at him curiously. Watson held the gaze, unintimidated.

The other man snorted, amused. His pupils were blown and the whites bloodshot, speaking of some intoxication. He sidled up to Watson, tossing an arm over his shoulder, breathing alcohol so potent it was practically blinding.

"Eh, _kracivi_. I like." Watson wasn't sure if his fragmented sentences were a result of his drunkenness or if he only knew scattered English. Watson tensed; the last thing he wanted was to start a fight and draw attention to themselves.

"Eh, sorry, _drug_," Holmes intervened, his voice taking on a lower, rougher register, more of a bark than his usual drawl. He rattled off something in Russian, faster than Watson could translate. It must have been something conciliatory, because the Blinder just shrugged philosophically, not removing his arm, but no longer looking at Watson in a proprietary manner.

"Eh, _zhal._ I like…I show good time," he laughed, jostling Watson's shoulder amicably, as if they were good friends.

"Well, since you mention it, we're looking for a good time." Watson's new friend leaned forward, his eyes lazily sliding back and forth as he tried to process Holmes' words. "We were told we could have something good. Some good action. From Vasiliy?" The name caused an immediate reaction; his eyebrows lifted and he gave a knowing chuckle.

"Eh, you like rough. _Tak I buit_. Come, I take." He pulled Watson by the shoulders, and leaned heavily on him as he led them away. There were no more shouts coming from the fight spectators. Watson didn't care to speculate as to why.

They were led through the maze of improvised shacks, seemingly without course or direction, Watson's hanger-on nattering on in a strange blend of Russian and some underworld slang that Holmes seemed to understand. He shot questions back, in his newly acquired rasp. As crazy as the notion was, Watson was forced to admit that, had he not been with Holmes as he put on his disguise, he wouldn't have believed that his new friend and this dirty, leering hauler were the same person.

The Blinder staggered to a halt in front of one shack, deep in the recesses of the basement. It was little more than metal siding held together by duct tape and tension coil. A space blanket had been draped over the entry, forming a crude door.

"Vasiliy here. Normally would not bring stranger. But for my pretty friend!" He gave Watson a pat on the cheek before laughing loudly in his face, his breath practically toxic. He gave Watson a shove toward the door, winking. A moment later, he continued staggering on his way, practically falling down two steps later.

Holmes and Watson looked at each other, Holmes with a question in his eyes, and Watson with an answer. Together, they stepped toward the entrance.

"Once we're in, don't hesitate. Don't let him get to open ground and don't let him call for help," Holmes whispered, all trace of his fake accent gone.

"Gotcha."

On the count of 3, Holmes reached out and grasped the blanket, giving it a rough tug. They barreled in immediately, rushing into the red-lit room.

* * *

"It seems your boyfriend was wrong," Holmes said wryly.

And he had been. Or maybe he misunderstood what they'd been asking for. Instead of directing them to where Vasiliy bedded down, they had been brought to where Vasiliy kept his…merchandise. There were several collapsible pallets littered about on the floor. Each one had a body lying on top of it-disheveled, filthy, and twitching in the throes of Shine. Men and women were there, emaciated and bruised. One or two moaned pitiably. The smell was overwhelming.

"So this is where he runs his operation."

"Or at least part of it," Watson responded, remembering Odd-Eyes' involvement with Chang Ku's. Did he own that place, too? Or was he only a lackey for Chang Ku?

"We can wait here. Hide until he gets back, and then jump him," Watson suggested, feeling at a loss, the adrenaline fueling his body with no outlet.

"No, Watson," Holmes responded from somewhere behind him, his voice strange. "I don't think we can wait."

Watson turned around and spotted Holmes standing over one of the pallets shoved in a corner. Watson slowly walked toward him to stand next to him. He looked down at what Holmes was peering at.

It was hard to tell, because the figure was at least twenty pounds skinnier, with his bones outlined by his skin and blood and shit covering many parts of him, but the poor wretch lying on the floor was Samuel Yoshiro.

* * *

Watson reached down and took the poor man's pulse. It was weak and thready. Consistent exposure to Shine and very little first aid to his various, horrifying injuries was sapping the life out of him, even as they stood there. His eyes were twitching beneath their jaundiced lids, and no amount of outside stimulus could rouse him.

"We have to get him out of here," Holmes said. "We can't wait for Vasiliy to come back."

"But Vasiliy knows where Sandeep is."

"Really, Watson-kun, you're being very one-note about this," he replied in exasperation.

"We can't just leave! We need to find Vasiliy. We need to make him tell us where Sandeep is. Nor can we just abandon these people!"

"Watson-kun, what do you suggest we do? Take on an _Arkyli_ dreg surrounded by his thugs and allies? Think of the client! Him, we can save! Look at him! If he spends another hour here, he'll be dead by morning."

"Holmes! How can we ignore these people?" Watson cried desperately. They were little more than meat sacks to the denizens of this place, most of them probably unaware of what was being done to them in their haze. It was probably a mercy, in its own horrific way.

"Watson. You can't save everyone. But you can save _this_ one. For his lover's sake, if nothing else."

And it was the right thing to say. (Damn him.) "How are we supposed to get him out of here? Just walk him out?"

"Well, yes. Look around for something to cover him with."

Watson stood up from where he had been kneeling next to Yoshiro. Scanning the room, he spotted a back corner filled with a bizarrely-shaped shadow. Upon approach, Watson realized it was a pile of clothing and boots. Scavenged, certainly, from Vasiliy's merchandise as they were gripped in the throes. No doubt rummaged through and discarded for destruction or recycling. Watson dipped into the pile, searching for something that would fit and cover Yoshiro. He was so nervous about being walked in on by Vasiliy himself, that he almost missed the significance of the jacket in his hand.

It was his.

Clearly, Vasiliy and his cohort had stripped it from him along with his boots last night. Watson pulled out the jacket entirely, scanning it minutely. Yes, there was the rip from the detonator wire that had had to be sewn back together with dental floss. It was an ugly thing, but right now it was the most beautiful possession he'd ever owned, because, upon closer inspection, the jacket still bore a telltale heaviness on one side. Reaching into the hidden inner pocket, Watson's hand circled around the grip of his sidearm. It was a glorious feeling, in this dark and dangerous place, irrationally providing him with a sense of safety despite each and every one of the men outside this place being twice as armed. But Watson was finally beginning to feel the scales balancing out.

Further inspection also revealed his sync, the glowing face telling him the time and alerting him to several missed messages from Madison. Reception would be impossible in this cavern, but it was _there_. He put the sync into "flex" mode and wrapped it around his wrist, so as not to lose it again.

"Captain! Hurry!" Holmes hissed in the darkness. Watson grabbed a random jumpsuit without looking along with his old jacket and tossed them both to Holmes, followed by a pair of mismatched boots. It didn't have to be pretty, just inconspicuous.

Before long, Holmes had Samuel dressed while Watson peeked his head out from behind the blanket. The outside was clear of any interested onlookers. If they hurried, they could get out without being seen. Holmes appeared at his side, one of Samuel's arms draped over his shoulders. Watson grabbed the other and the unkempt trio casually sidled out of the building and back towards the main plaza and entrance. They kept Samuel's head down, assisted by the sheer fact that he didn't have the strength or awareness to keep it up. They shuffled past everyone, looking like two haulers helping a drunken comrade get back to their ship before launch. They were not questioned or stopped at all, except for when Watson's new friend waved and winked from far off, paying their new addition little attention.

They had Samuel out of the vent door as quickly as possible without looking shifty. Dragging him through the channel proved more difficult, the water both dragging him down and making his body slippery within their grasp. The tide had come in while they were inside and it now came up their waists and was rapidly reaching their chests. Each step of the way, Watson could swear that somebody must be following them, because how could it be this simple?

They reached the other side, which had only grown more slippery and awkward as the tide came in. Holmes loped ahead and pulled himself onto the nearest rock promontory. The slope was more severe and it would be difficult for just one of them to drag him up the narrow path. Watson had just tossed Samuel to Holmes, who had caught the dead weight awkwardly, when something hard and heavy slammed into him from behind, pitching him face forward into the water.

When he was able to turn over and get his head above water, it was to the rather unsurprising sight of Vasiliy looming over him.

At first, he didn't recognize Watson, thanks to Holmes' disguise talents. But something in Watson's facial structure must have given him away. "You again?" the beast snarled, less terrifying now that he had been given a name. "What do I have to do to get _rid_ of you?"

Watson didn't answer; the time for questions and answers had passed. Instead, he pushed hard with his good leg, gaining a momentum and velocity he had hoped for, but no longer believed he could achieve. He crashed into the thug with a satisfying tackle, and the two were soon both submerged in the filthy water. Watson could hear Holmes call for him; knew that keeping Samuel's dead weight from slipping into the water would keep him from coming to his assistance. For once, this didn't bother him.

The fight was fierce and agonizing. Each breath, Watson wasn't sure whether he would get air or water, as their positions flipped and turned. They were both slippery, and it was difficult to maintain a grasp on anything. It soon descended to shoving and flailing fists. Watson's heart pounded painfully, and his lungs burned. But Vasiliy was in good shape, and Watson hadn't even recovered from their last fight earlier that day. Watson soon felt hands around his neck pushing his head under the murky water. He held his breath as long as could, reaching out and thrashing. If he could just see…

Suddenly, the pressure was off his neck and he breached the surface with an audible, painful gasp. Vasiliy had forgotten about Holmes, who couldn't let go of Samuel, but who had managed to find a heavy chunk of fallen concrete, which he had thrown with impressive accuracy at Vasiliy's head. Watson's attacker now stood, clutching the side of his head, blood oozing from between his fingers. When he pulled them away, a hideous gash covered the entire width of his forehead, the white of his skull beginning to show. Watson wasn't sure if he was hallucinating again or if Holmes had really wreaked that damage. It didn't matter; it gave him the opportunity he needed. As Vasiliy had been drowning him, he hadn't noticed Watson reaching into his borrowed jacket, pulling out the sidearm he had secreted there after recovering it from his old one.

Now presented with the opportunity to aim properly, Watson squeezed the trigger, praying that the water hadn't breached the waterproof casing and messed with the electronics.

It hadn't. The sighting laser came on a split second before the potent, targeted sonic blast followed its path and left a hideous mess where Vasiliy's head had been. Watson might not be able to run or lift his arm above shoulder level anymore, but his aim was still true.

Watson walked over the corpse. There was no way it could still be alive, but Watson was careful. The man was dead and Watson could find no pity in himself. His victims were still back there, in that horrid place, no doubt either to starve to death or to be appropriated by some other business competitor. Killing this man had made not one jot of difference to them.

It wasn't enough. Was nowhere near enough. But it was a start. He couldn't save those that Vasiliy had already defiled, but he could save the ones he would have. He could save Samuel Yoshiro, at the very least.

Watson was beginning to think that this would just have to suffice. Not just this time, but from now on.

Remembering Holmes, he looked to the shoreline as his breath rate slowed back down to normal, his gasps coming loud and heavy in his own ears. He was there, waiting and holding up Samuel, half of whose body was still in the water, only being kept from slipping under by Holmes' grip on him.

Watson momentarily feared that Holmes would be angry with him for killing a man whose testimony would no doubt have been invaluable.

But, it seemed Holmes' dedication to law and justice was a flexible beast, for he simply looked down at Watson as he stood there, and smiled proudly.

* * *

They didn't get back to Holmes' dock until well into the following morning, the sun already high overhead, and the midday tide lapping higher on the house's mooring.

Once they had made it across the channel and well away from the Slots, they had quickly shed their disguises as much as possible and ran to the nearest Flow segue. They waved down a cab and headed to the nearest hospital they could find. Samuel was still deeply unconscious between them, his breath rasping more and more in his throat.

Once checked into the PubMed, they had waited, claiming to be friends, as Yoshiro was intubated and placed, first into a triage scanner, and then submersed in an antiseptic bath. Holmes listened patiently as Watson explained the significance of the procedures, seeming to catalogue Yoshiro's injuries for his own mental records.

They were extensive; Yoshiro had suffered no shortage of abuse in the two weeks he had been missing. There were several broken bones, internal bleeding, organ dessication and venal collapse due to the constant influx of Shine and who knew what else being pumped into him to keep him insensate and docile. He had been beaten, cut, and burnt in many places, and raped endlessly. It was nauseating.

But he was alive. Which was more than could be said for Mister J.

"He and his lover must have been caught at Chang Ku's, or some other den, or even out on the streets. They were kidnapped, to be tortured and brutalized together, until J eventually died from an overdose. Only a few days ago. If only we had gotten there sooner," Watson said, breathtaken and sad. Their lives had been hard enough, buffeted by strife from Yoshiro-san and perhaps even other obstacles. To have their trials rewarded with pain and permanent separation; it was hard to see the good in all of this.

"Mm," Holmes grunted in reply. It didn't have the tone of either skepticism or agreement, and Watson suspected that the taller man hadn't even heard him at all. He seemed lost in his own little world, watching from the visitor's view screen into the medical theatre. It was little surprise; while Watson had been about moping and getting himself consistently pummeled, Holmes had been working this case with very little sleep or food, as far as Watson could tell. Adrenaline and sheer will could only take him so far and, now that there was no reason to put up a fight or a flight, he was beginning to crash.

"Come on, Holmes-kun, you need to rest. We can check in on him later. There isn't much more we can do until he wakes up." Holmes' lips quirked at the honorific, and he turned to Watson, some of his previous spark still left in his eyes. Before he could respond, however, they were interrupted by the sound of an orderly shouting.

They both turned as one, spotting the short figure of Yoshiro-san approaching them, her stride clipped and appearing, despite her relatively mussed clothing, every bit as imposing as before. The orderly was shouting after her, telling her she couldn't be in that part of the Med, until Holmes intervened, clarifying that she was the patient's mother, but also neglecting to refer to her by name.

"I got your message," she said, breathlessly. "Is it true? He's…"

"Alive, Yoshiro-san." The woman's face seemed to tighten all over, as if afraid of letting even a part of her show reaction. Her eyes suddenly gained a sheen however, and her mouth tightened to the point where she had to pause for a long moment before speaking. Holmes filled the silence.

"We checked him in under a false name. With any luck, nobody should ever know. According to the Captain here, a few days of induced sleep and time in a regenerator should have him at least mobile, if weak. You'll probably be able to take him home, then." Her nod was quick, a sharp dip.

"Where was he?"

"He was sold into sexual slavery in a _passazh_." Yoshiro-san gave a slight gasp, and Watson mentally cursed Holmes' complete lack of sensitivity.

"Your son was very injured. But the important thing is he's been found, and he's alive. Nothing else matters," he interceded on Holmes' behalf. Her lip began to quiver, and her gaze broke away as the sheen grew into full-fledged, if unshed, tears.

"Thank you," she said, gulping, regaining her composure. She looked into Holmes' face, unblinking. "I will not forget this. But now isn't the time…" she began.

"No, no it isn't," Holmes agreed, with a bit more kindness, or at least, a better approximation of it. Holmes no doubt blamed Yoshiro-san in part for driving her son to such a situation and Watson couldn't say he disagreed, but no amount of blame would help Samuel Yoshiro through his no doubt extensive upcoming recup period.

They turned to leave and, as Holmes struggled with putting on his too small coat, Watson turned his head back toward the view screen. He could still see the white sterile chamber where scrubbed doctors and nurses worked on what was left of Samuel. Silhouetted by the bright working lights, was Yoshiro-san. Her hand lifted to press against the glass, and she stroked it lightly along the distant outline of her son's face.

(Maybe some good, after all.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All warnings, disclaimers and notes are in Part 1.

"Well, I'd say we can call last night a success," Holmes stated cheerily, his lethargy from that morning having evaporated upon return to his house along with a shower to wash away the channel filth.

"I guess," Watson replied, a bit sullenly. He chewed disinterestedly on one of the vaccu-sealed meals left over in Holmes' cooler. There was no expiration date on it. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered to even look for one, but Watson had decided to take nothing for granted in Holmes' mess of a house. The militant in him itched to get his hands on this place. He could make it shine like a bulkhead in a day, he was sure of it. How long it would stay that way was another matter.

Watson shook his head ruefully. What did it matter if he cleaned it? It's not like he was actually _living_ here.

"Come on, Watson-kun. We saved our client, at no small risk to ourselves, rescued him from death and a fate worse than death at the same time. Reunited self-imploding son with frigidly domineering mother and managed to stop a criminal not worth the shit we were covered in."

"True," Watson said, taking a tentative bite of his meal. Beans, unfortunately, but it looked like Mrs. Hudson had decided not to stop by for breakfast again. But Watson was famished, for the first time in a long time, despite the suddenly regular meals provided by the vociferous landlady.

"Then why so down? Enjoy those beans, because today we are made of win!" Holmes was practically ecstatic, rustling about the kitchen, searching for something to eat for himself.

"We still haven't found Sandeep." Holmes' face shuttered with irritation, as if that subject had been closed already and Watson was being tiresome in constantly reminding him of it. "If I hadn't acted out like that; if I had maybe tried to subdue him instead of kill him. We could have questioned him."

Holmes snorted. "Watson-kun, it's cute that you think that, but the likes of Vasiliy wouldn't have told us anything. Besides, can you honestly say you're sorry you did it? If you do, I'll apologize right here and now for dragging you into it…"

"No," Watson interrupted. "I don't regret it." And he didn't. Even though it meant any chance of discovering what happened to Sandeep was lost forever. Even though it meant heartache and despair for Madison, he still couldn't regret it. He wasn't sure if that meant he was being selfish or just pragmatic.

"Besides!" Holmes chirped, his high mood not dimmed in the slightest by Watson's sulk, "Haven't you noticed how much better you feel?"

Watson had, actually. His leg and his shoulder still hurt a great deal, and he had been so bruised during this whole venture that he now looked like a walking mosaic of blue, brown and purple, but even yesterday's two fights with Vasiliy didn't hurt as much as he would have expected. He felt supremely energized; actions that had taken whole minutes and still left him tired and panting were less exhausting today. His vision was sharper and he felt more…awake. _This_ was what he had been missing these last two months.

"Yeah, I have. It's my new prescription; my dosage has changed."

"Yes, it has. I've replaced it."

Watson stopped, his spork halfway to his face. It was like suddenly everything had gone silent. He had to wait a full minute to properly review what he had just heard and even then, he couldn't be sure. Holmes continued to lean against the counter, just standing there eating cereal straight from the box.

"Excuse me?" It was more a breath than a question, but Holmes heard it nonetheless.

"While you were calling Lt. Madison last night, I was in the bathroom, switching out your caps from the VetMed with these," he responded calmly, lifting up a canister from the counter containing pills which, now Watson had been made aware of them, did indeed look similar to his prescription.

The bottom dropped out of him with sudden fear, his chest contracting painfully. He'd been such an _idiot!_ He had trusted this Holmes character implicitly, without asking too many questions, following along so _blindly_. He'd assumed that because he had saved his life, Holmes had done it out of some decency or kindness, but he'd never _asked._ The disdain he'd shown for people's feelings, for rules, for personal limits. It had been cold and clinical and analytic, and Watson had never noticed, never thought to wonder why Watson had been treated so differently. Had simply trusted the words of a man he had known less than two days, simply because he had shown Watson a few morsels of kindness.

(You pathetic idiot.)

Holmes must have noticed the gobsmacked look on Watson's face because he added, quite calmly between bites, "Don't worry, Watson-kun, they're just ordinary run of the mill vitamin supplements. The water here is so purified, we have to take them frequently. No harm done!" He smiled beatifically.

Watson could only give a disbelieving laugh. More of an exhale of the terrified breath he had been holding than a true laugh.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Watson shouted. He stormed over to the counter next to Holmes, grabbing the bottle, being sure to check the label and the packaging. He wouldn't be taking anything for granted anymore. He couldn't hide his relieved sigh as they seemed to be exactly what he said they were.

"Awfully melodramatic, aren't you?"

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" He asked again, this time genuinely, furiously curious. "You can't just _do_ this to people! We're not little control groups in an experiment. We're not players in some game. We're fucking real! I need this medication to stay _alive_!" Watson shouted into his face. Holmes' face shuttered and his eyes narrowed, clearly preparing a verbal volley in his own defense. Watson dearly wanted to hear it. "What did you think you were _doing_?"

"Saving your life," Holmes replied, coolly, but with an expression of disdain.

Watson admitted that this was the last answer he had expected. "Oh?"

"Haven't you noticed? I have, even though I had to guess at it. If you'd just been straightforward about it, instead of hiding behind your foolish and ridiculously transparent pride, I would've figured it out sooner instead of wasting my time being emotional over…." he trailed off, clearly not wanting to finish the sentence.

"What are you talking about?"

"You've been having hallucinations. Not just flashbacks, not just anxiety attacks, full blown hallucinations, triggered by an accelerated heartbeat and sudden introduction of adrenaline into the system. Isn't that right?"

And Watson realized that Holmes was absolutely right. The fights with Vasiliy, the pursuits, the…arousal. The one thing that had consistently preceded them was the sound of his own frenetic heartbeat in his own ears, the painful beating within his own chest.

"I'm…I'm not well." Watson excused meekly.

"That's because you were being **made** unwell." Holmes' voice was too loud, too loud in the oppressive silence that was closing in on Watson, an almost tangible pressure against his skin. There was a tint of anger in the voice, whether at Watson or not, he couldn't guess. But it made his nerves seize all the same.

"While it is common, and understandable, for those suffering from PTSD to suffer such symptoms, I just couldn't credit them happening with such frequency or in such varying…conditions. So, when the opportunity presented itself, I took the liberty of swapping out your caps with some vitamins, which you no doubt needed anyway, and setting them for analysis in the spectral set when you went back into the bathroom. Do you want to know what I found?"

"This isn't the time for games!" Watson cried desperately. What was _in_ him?

"I found dichloralholene." Holmes' expression suddenly changed to one of pity. "Do you…know what that is?"

"No!"

"It's an active ingredient in a number of stimulants and frequently in hallucinogens. As adrenaline and heartbeat increase, it sends a signal to the nervous system to continue the output, even beyond the outside stimulus, creating tremendous strain on the body systems. The effects on the brain chemistry are particularly strenuous, causing hallucinations, mood swings, optical and aural disruption. This, however, is a variation of the formula I've never seen before. It's crude and unrefined, and even clumsy, but effective."

As Holmes spoke, Watson could feel his legs giving way beneath him, although this time not due to any physical damage to muscle or bone. His vision was growing hazy at the edges, and the world just seemed so _heavy_ all of a sudden, pressing the breath out of him, making gasps of air the only way he could get any oxygen in. Holmes was immediately at his side, his long legs stretched out as he sat next to Watson, whispering in his ear.

"Watson-kun?" It was said with uncomfortable concern, as if Holmes hadn't predicted this reaction and now was lost as to how to deal with it. But there was kindness in the hand on his shoulder, and it was what undid him.

Watson gasped out a sob, tried to tighten his chest into restraining the subsequent ones, but there was no use. He was crying, ugly tears and snot streaming down his face, and his sobs began to merge into a wounded wail as he attempted to grit his teeth against them.

"I thought…" he began and had to stop to cover his face. Another moment passed, and he knew there would be no holding it back, "I thought I was going _crazy_." And now it had been said, it couldn't be unsaid. Two months of fear were in the tone, but also a relief so profound, the likes of which he hadn't felt since waking up in Medical, in horrific pain, but _alive_.

Holmes sat by him until it was over, silently petting his hair again, as he sobbed on Holmes' dirty kitchen floor.

* * *

Watson woke up some time later, exhausted and sore-headed from congestion. He didn't recognize the room, but there was a futon underneath him, so he assumed it was Holmes' upper bedroom. He was laying on his side, a blanket covering him. He was sore and, though it was still very sedated by exhaustion, embarrassed at his complete and only semi-private breakdown.

"You're awake," Holmes announced, surprised. He was sitting on the floor right next to the futon, his back leaning against a wall and his legs stretched and crossed in front of him. He was holding a book. An honest-to-God _book._ Watson couldn't help but chuckle at the sight, because who even _had_ books anymore? It was so eccentrically sentimental, Watson couldn't help but love Holmes a bit for it.

Holmes was quite close; Watson imagined his breath would ruffle the folds of Holmes' pants.

"Yes, I am. Unfortunately." It was a joke, because Watson was actually ecstatic to be awake, even if his physical energy couldn't match his enthusiasm. Ecstatic not to be insane, not to be imagining things. To be able to trust himself again.

"I'm glad," Holmes said, reaching out to brush Watson's fringe from his forehead. It was soothing, and Watson felt himself growing tired again. His eyes began to droop slowly; he was not much longer for wakefulness this time around.

"I'm tired."

"Then go to sleep." Said exasperated, as if the answer should be obvious.

"Answer me something first."

"Ask."

"Why me?"

Holmes paused. "I don't understand the question."

"Why did you pick me to save, that night in Chang Ku's? You could have left me, like we left all those others in Desal behind." It had been in the back of Watson's mind all this time, not terribly important. But now, now that he knew he was being poisoned all this time, and Holmes had been doing his own little experiments, he couldn't help but doubt everything.

"Well, you were awake and relatively aware. You showed some spirit in trying to escape, and, from the head wound and very recent bruises on your face, it was obvious you hadn't come of your own will." Holmes said it vaguely, a dry and perfectly logical list. Watson didn't doubt its veracity, only its completeness.

"That isn't all." It was a statement, because Watson might not know Holmes as well as he had imagined he did, which was probably better still than he had a right to in only two days, but he knew that Holmes wasn't telling him everything; _never_ told him everything.

Holmes was silent a long moment and Watson feared he wouldn't answer at all, would ignore the question until exhaustion claimed Watson again.

"Because you didn't belong there," he finally responded, quiet, simple.

It made his body loosen entirely just to hear it, relieving some long-standing tension that had settled into his very marrow.

* * *

When Watson woke up again, he was surprised to see that only a few hours had passed since his impromptu breakdown. He blushed at the memory, deeply embarrassed, but he couldn't deny he felt lighter and more well-rested than he had since… He couldn't even remember. Sitting up on the futon, the blanket fell down around his lap as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and ran a hand through his hair.

Holmes had disappeared, a lukewarm cup of coffee left behind indicating it hadn't been all that long ago that he'd been sitting there. Watson took the moment to indulge his curiosity as he looked around Holmes' room. It was just as messy as the downstairs, clothes strewn about, and a few food packages discarded on random surfaces. More interesting was the small, but clearly well-loved, collection of antique books. They were actually housed on _shelves._ Next to them was a music stand, electronic music sheets stacked haphazardly next to it. A small black plastic case rested amongst them. Watson couldn't be sure what type of instrument it was from the nondescript case, but it looked like a smaller one. Not a tuba, then. They were endearing personal touches, hinting at an underlying art in the blood, for all Holmes' talk of emotional removal.

On another far wall, Holmes had taken some marker or paint and had begun a bizarre diagram, similar to, but less wieldy than, the tapestry he had made downstairs. Watson couldn't comprehend it; it was a maze of lines connecting various notes reflecting standard dates as well as more flimsies depicting the faces and rap sheets of various criminal individuals. The chart looked complex and, if Watson's head weren't throbbing, he would probably have analyzed it a bit more.

As it was, he was completely dehydrated, and he scrambled off the low futon to stagger across the floor and down the short landing and stairway. Holmes was sitting on the couch idly flipping through the 'casts on the threed. Upon hearing Watson's entrance, he abruptly stood up.

"Watson-kun," he began, then trailed off awkwardly, clearly unsure how he was supposed to respond to a man who had just had a mental breakdown on his kitchen floor. His eyes flicked around the room, seemingly afraid to meet Watson's. Watson was similarly afflicted, unsure of what Holmes thought of him. But, they had faced more in the last two days than some friends faced in years. If Holmes had wanted to get rid of him, he no doubt would have.

"I, um…" Watson began, Holmes eagerly taking the opportunity to follow Watson's lead for a change. This had to be done right. And sincerity was always right.

"Thank you," Watson said, meeting Holmes' eyes squarely and unabashedly. "For everything." He held out his hand, extending it into the charged space between them. Holmes quirked his lips again in his queer, mercurial grin and stepped forward to take Watson's hand. He gave it a firm squeeze and an affectionate shake.

"You're welcome."

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson stopped by while you were asleep. After berating me shamelessly, she left you some soup, on the counter." Watson heated it up gratefully under the heat lamp and began to spoon it up voraciously.

Holmes set a bright blue capsule on the table next to Watson, one of the vitamins he had been sneaking him. He watched Watson, his expression unreadable. Watson suspected he was wondering if he would accept it. Without hesitation, he took the capsule and stuck it under his tongue. Holmes smiled at him, quite beautifully, as Watson waited for it to dissolve.

"Well, Watson-kun, I'm glad to see you feeling better."

"I'm glad to _be_ better."

"I have to ask, can you think of anybody who would want to poison you?"

"Nobody. I've only been here for two months!" Watson hadn't been thinking about that particular question, hadn't _wanted_ to think about it.

"Well, obviously this poisoning has been a recent activity. You haven't had these symptoms before your injury?"

"Not at all."

"Interesting. It implies complicity at a much higher level." Holmes paused and stared off into the middle distance, a disconcerting habit, as he pulled out a cigarette and absently lit up. He smoked for a few minutes, Watson desperately wanting to ask what the other man was thinking. But the panic and screams and never-ending demands for his attention, his direction, on the battlefield had taught him the value of just being left in peace to gather your thoughts and then _do_.

Watson continued eating his soup and was startled when Holmes suddenly spoke out.

"Watson, you said you're feeling better. Do you think you can go out today?"

"I can if I have to," he replied, drinking the rest of his meal straight from the bowl. It must have left behind a bit of noodle on his chin because Holmes snorted in affectionate amusement and reached out a long finger to wipe it off. Watson laughed at himself and his lower lip ended up brushing against the finger. Holmes did not remove it.

Their eyes locked, stuck in their moment, arousal beginning to pump through Watson's veins. Memories from the night before hit Watson with exhilaration and embarrassment. If they were to try it again, would they be able to do it without another hallucinatory interruption? Would the drugs that were still being filtered out by his body interfere?

Before Watson could contemplate the matter further, Holmes cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped away.

"I need a favor, Watson," Holmes said, leaning away again. Nothing was said concerning the moment.

"Ask."

"The caps you gave me," and Watson snorted at this embellishment, "I've used them all during my tests. I need another sample to run traces for some of the components. Can you go back to the VetMed today and get another refill?"

"They're going to want to know what happened to the last one."

"Tell them you lost it. Or it got jacked. Or you dropped it into the sea. Whatever. Just get another sample."

"Alright," Watson replied. He wasn't thrilled about going back to the VetMed for the third time in three days; wasn't thrilled at the idea of being in a place where somebody was trying to poison him, while he had no idea who it could be.

"And take Lieutenant Madison with you," Holmes added suddenly.

"Madison?"

"Yes. You have an unknown assailant somewhere on this planet, with a motive I can't quite decipher yet. You need somebody to watch your back. Madison sounds like a thoroughly capable comrade," Holmes said, turning back to his chemistry desk.

"Where will you be?" Watson asked, feeling an unaccountable sensation of abandonment.

"Here," Holmes responded, as if the answer should be obvious. "This compound is similar, but not exact, to substances I've seen before. It requires more research."

It was reasonable, and so Watson couldn't think of any argument to be made. Still, it was such a complete 180 from their intimacy not two minutes ago, Watson felt adrift.

"Alright," he responded again. "I'll get dressed and go. If I leave now, it should still be open by the time I get there."

His only response was a grunt from Holmes as he stared down at his desk, Watson already forgotten.

* * *

"You seem distracted," Madison asked, her tone sympathetic as they walked from the Strata station where they'd agreed to meet before continuing on to the VetMed, its distinctively polygonal shape growing larger as they approached.

"Do I? I'm sorry." Watson hadn't been able to get Holmes' abrupt rejection out of his mind since showering, dressing in yet more borrowed clothing, and leaving. It was ridiculous; teenager-ish and self-pitying. Madison had agreed to accompany him after he'd made up some excuse about wanting the company despite her own worries and upcoming tribunal date. The least he could do was focus his attention on her.

"How's it going?"

"Alright," she sighed. "I keep waiting in our room, waiting for him to come back. Or, I'll sit by the sync and wonder if maybe the power died on it and check it about 5 times an hour. I don't think he's ever coming back."

"Any word on the tribunal?"

"It's the day after tomorrow. When I first found out, I panicked. But now Sandeep's gone, I just…I can't bring myself to care."

Watson thought, not for the first time, how strong Madison was, how beautiful she was when she was in love. There was an intangible self-possession to her, similar to what Holmes had, that Watson found himself alternately admiring and envying. If things had gone differently, maybe it would be he and Madison together, expecting their first child. Guilt and shame immediately speared him and he felt disloyal, not only to Sandeep, who was an imperfect man, and nowhere good enough for the woman he had somehow snagged; but also, insanely, to Holmes.

"You never know." Watson tried to be optimistic, for her sake. "He hasn't been found anywhere. He wasn't at the Links, or…" Watson hadn't told her about his foray into the Slots and had already resolved that he wouldn't unless absolutely necessary. It was devastating enough to imagine a lover dead; it was on quite another level to imagine him in a hellish slavery, with little hope of rescue.

"No," she responded, unconvinced. "You never know." They walked on in awkward silence, her shorter legs still managing to easily outpace Watson's exhausted ones.

"I haven't seen you around since that night. Where've you been hiding?" she asked suddenly.

"I've been staying with…a friend."

"Oh," she said slyly. "I didn't know you had any friends here." She was fishing for chatter, hoping to have somebody else's problems to focus on.

"It's a recent thing," he responded, uncomfortable talking about Holmes.

Sensing he wasn't going to continue, she shrugged philosophically and gestured to his wrist. "I see you got your sync back. I was surprised to see your face pop up on my I.D.screen."

"Yeah. Turns out the dregs didn't want it, I guess. Somebody found it nearby and got it back to me." It was a clumsy lie, and less than Madison deserved, but Watson was finding it hard to keep his nervousness at bay. Being the target of an unknown killer was extremely unnerving. In war, it was so impersonal, so accepted. He hadn't given much thought as to the "who", only the "when" and the "how" and even then, it was something he hadn't pondered too hard on out of a vague sense of superstition. Now, somebody was out to kill John Watson, subtly and specifically. It made even standing out in the open seem too claustrophobic.

Thankfully, Madison didn't ask any more questions on the subject, just kept walking, her hand occasionally brushing along her still-flat abdomen. It was a nervous gesture, beautiful despite its circumstances.

The VetMed was practically empty this close to closing. Free chow was offered at the Billet around this time, forcing most vets to choose between food and medicine. As it was, there were only a handful of vets gathering up their things as they prepared to leave, a few orderlies maintaining some order, and a couple Entrists processing the day's electronic files in the main system. Watson walked up to the Triage kiosk, allowing his tags to be scanned.

The scanner seemed to take an infinite amount of time as he nervously fidgeted while his vitals were being recorded. Madison was still out in the reception vestibule, intently reading an article on prenatal health.

Finally, the same somber digitized tone requested that he step through to see the doctor. Watson breathed deeply while re-dressing and stepped through.

* * *

"Captain Watson, I'm surprised to see you back so soon," Dr. Xue greeted, although if he really was surprised, his tone didn't reflect it, as usual.

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry." Watson nervously rested his hands on the back of the circular chair until the doctor gestured for him to sit.

"What can I help you with?"

"It's about my caps."

"Ah, yes. How is the new dosage working for you? Still in pain?" He wasn't even looking at him again, damn him.

"Um, no, actually. That is," Watson stuttered, already off to a bad start, his practiced speech slipping from his memory. "That is I…I've lost them. The caps, I mean. I think they must have fallen out of my pocket while I was on the strata. They're not there anymore and I was hoping you could write me a refill. Before the pharmacy closed."

Dr. Xue studied him a long moment. "I suppose that's doable." He proceeded to type some messages into his desk sync, no doubt granting his permission for an unscheduled refill. There were no further questions as to the nature of the loss, or even any side effects. The doctor in Watson screamed out in disapproval.

"I've been noticing some strange…side effects."

"Oh?" Completely bored.

"Yes, I've been…seeing things. Suddenly. I'll start feeling nervous and all of a sudden I'll just sort of…seize." This finally garnered a reaction from the taciturn doctor.

"Really? How odd. How long has this been going on?"

"Since I came here," Watson admitted.

"I wish you'd told me of this sooner, Captain. This is very important." It was said sternly, like a father scolding a child, and it raised Watson's hackles.

"I guess I didn't feel very comfortable talking about it with a doctor."

"It's always best to get these things out. To talk to your doctor about your reactions."

"So, it _is_ a common side effect then?" Holmes had only wanted Watson to get another sample of caps, but it wasn't _his_ life at stake, and if Holmes was so concerned about it, he could get his ass out of the house and look into it.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. But you're not the first I've come across with this problem." Xue stood up and walked over to a reference screen behind Watson, lazily dragging his finger along the sensors, pulling up and subsequently discarding files. While the doctor was distracted, Watson leaned forward, trying to see the screen on the desk with his file still open. The angle was awkward and a glare from the sub-standard windows blocked half of the writing. Half of it was in kanji as well, causing Watson to curse at his illiteracy.

"I'm glad to hear you say that. I was beginning to get nervous, and then with my caps getting jacked, I just didn't know whether I should keep taking them, or just give them up."

Watson could hear the doctor suddenly stop moving behind him. He leaned back in his chair again to avoid being caught snooping.

"I thought you said you lost them?" Dr. Xue asked, suspicion shading his voice.

"Oh…well. I did. Or at least, I think I did. But my coat was jacked down at the Links too, so they might have been in there." It was an even clumsier lie, and Watson mentally kicked himself for coming across, not only as a liar, but as a drug addict as well.

It was the least of his problems, however, as Watson suddenly found an arm wrapped around his neck from behind, the crook of the elbow expertly squeezing around his windpipe. Instinctively, he began to flail, his good arm reaching behind him to try to punch Xue in the face. His bad arm couldn't bend that far yet and, being trapped in the chair as he was, he knew he was at a distinct disadvantage and only had so much time to come up with a plan. He couldn't find the air to call for help.

"Relax," Xue whispered, in the same monotonous, emotionless drone. "I'm a doctor." Watson decided that trying to reach behind him was useless. As his vision began to fade and his skin tingled with the loss of oxygenated blood, he instead reached forward to grab one of the ornamental statuettes settled on the desk. He followed Holmes' example and swung the heavy object behind him, smashing it into Xue's face. Watson found himself able to breath again, and wasted no time running toward the door.

But Xue was made of strong stuff, tackling Watson to the ground as he passed, and rolling him over onto his back. He dug a knee into Watson's ruined shoulder as he moved to straddle him. Watson cried out in pain, the agony of the recently re-injured shoulder inflaming his whole left side. He was frozen in the pain for a moment, and Xue took the opportunity to draw an injection gun out of his coat pocket. Watson's eyes widened as he saw it, and he attempted to renew his struggles, his arm still pinned and his bad leg twisted awkwardly under him.

"I was hoping it wouldn't have to come to this," Xue said, as he began to position the needle near an entry vein. Watson was ready to give one last final surge of energy into bucking the man off, when a sudden explosion of noise filled the office. Xue looked up in surprise, giving Watson the opportunity to strike him under the jaw with his good arm. Xue fell off him, only to be caught, much to Watson's very great surprise, by Investigator Lestrade. He and two other uniformed Enforcers stormed into the small office, taking up the entire width of the room.

Watson felt he should stand, or at the very least sit, up as Lestrade and another burly Enforcer attempted to wrestle Xue into submission and bracelets. But he found he lacked the energy to untwist his mangled body. He was still trying to get some air when a familiar silhouette suddenly blocked out the ceiling lights as he stared straight up.

"Holmes," Watson croaked in surprise. The man himself squatted down next to Watson, putting a hand to his neck to inspect the damage. There was nothing substantial and so Holmes just rolled his eyes affectionately before helping him to stand and said, "You really are the worst liar, Watson-kun."

* * *

They soon all found themselves situated in the now-appropriated vestibule: Watson, Xue, Lestrade and his two Enforcers, Madison, and Holmes who, now that Watson had the opportunity to see him properly, was dressed in Watson's bedraggled military uniform.

"Alright, Holmes," Lestrade barked. "You called me and told me to come down here. And I did, seeing as how I owe you one or two, even though this is a Military installation and they'll probably have my badge for this. You better explain and it better be quick."

"I'll explain it as quick as I can, Lestrade, but it's a complex matter. Let me know if I go too fast for you," Holmes responded, turning away from Lestrade, dismissing him from his sphere entirely. Lestrade's face turned an ugly puce in indignation, but, to his credit, he stood by, keeping a firm eye on Xue.

Unexpectedly, Holmes turned, not to Watson, but to Madison. "But first, I have a question to ask of Lt. Madison." She blinked at him, surprised, but nodded.

"Do you recognize this man?" To Watson's surprise, Holmes pulled out the capture they had found hidden underneath Samuel Yoshiro's bed. Watson's surprise was nothing compared to Madison's, however.

"Oh my God! It's Jenski."

"You _know_ him, Madison?"

"Yes, of course." Before she could continue, Holmes cut in, taking command of the conversation.

"Sgt. Jenski Bishop, if I'm correct. Lately of the New Apollan conflict, and then transferred here after devastating injuries sustained over two combat tours. He was injured, healed, sent back out, and then injured again, until it came to the point where he could no longer perform his duties due to health.

"You'll remember, Watson, that we were confounded by the sheer number of injuries he had sustained over a lengthy period of time. You understandably, but erroneously, assumed that, because of his lover's…situation, he had been a victim of the same fate. But the timing of the trauma was inconsistent, so I had to reject that theory altogether.

"I noticed a very distinctive odor on the corpse. It was so pervasive, even his stint in the water hadn't had the opportunity to wash it off. It was the smell of self-heating antiseptic, hospital-grade if the potency was any indicator. It became clear that, whoever he was, he had been injured in combat and had spent much time in hospital, either as a patient or as an employee."

Watson felt his mind racing, little pieces clicking into place. Of course he hadn't noticed the smell, had thought Holmes bat shit to have been sniffing the corpse; he had grown so used to the odor, had had it permeate his own wardrobe as well, so frequently was he exposed to it on his hospital visits.

"You didn't notice, distracted as you were, Watson-kun, but I followed you from the Flow yesterday to the hospital here, to make sure you made it alright. Upon seeing you arrive safely, I set about asking some of the orderlies and Entrists if they recognized the photograph. No fewer than five recognized him as Jenski Bishop. His injuries had earned him a planetside detail here at the VetMed. He was, by all accounts, an excellent typist and analyst, and was thus assigned as an assistant to Dr. Xue over here, to help maintain his medical files."

At this point, Holmes turned toward Lestrade who was standing imposingly over Xue.

"You have been very lucky today, Lestrade. I don't think that even if you were twice as imaginative as you are now, you would ever have guessed that you would be arresting notorious Shine pusher Chang Ku."

The reaction in the room was instantaneous. Lestrade and the Enforcers immediately tightened around Xue, or rather Ku, Watson supposed, determined to prevent escape. Madison's jaw dropped, shock and anger crossing her beautiful face. Watson himself was scarcely less surprised.

"Holmes, what are you talking about?"

"Watson, I ask that you wait and let me get my thoughts out. I don't doubt you'll have questions, you always do," he said with a smile, "but it's best that I get it out now."

"Dr. Xue, Anton Xue is his full, true name, has been going by the moniker 'Chang Ku' in order to produce and push his own variant of Shine to the general public. The reason why we were never able to pin down Chang Ku in the Links is for the simple reason that, as a respectable military doctor, Xue had the perfect front. He saw no need to dirty his hands and so developed and cooked the narcotic and then provided it to a low-level _Arkyli_ enforcer known as Vasiliy Koulikov. For an almost equal split, Xue would provide the materials to Vasiliy, who would monitor the Link warehouse, use his own underlings to sell the drug or lure users into the warehouse, and then pass on the money earned. In exchange, he would be permitted to take those individuals who would not be missed, drug them, kidnap them, and then force them into sexual slavery in a Blinder _passazh_, passing on a percentage of the proceeds, I'm sure.

"This I suspected but couldn't confirm until today, when I entered in here and passed myself off as an Entrist. Xue is a diabolically good bio-chemist and pharmacologist, but he is an abominably poor programmer. His files were easy to access."

"Holmes!" Watson whispered, scandalized. But Holmes did not hear or did not care.

"Things began to become very clear as I perused his files. Not wanting to get his hands dirty, but also wanting a consistent client-base for his narcotics, Xue offered some of the product to Sgt. Bishop as a method to alleviate the constant pain he was no doubt in. As predicted, Sgt. Bishop became addicted and, in order to continue getting hits of the stuff, agreed to pick out those patients who passed through and seemed likely to take his advice to go down to the Links. Those with chronic pain, perhaps, or those with personalities prone to experimentation and escapism. Such as…" Holmes paused, moderating his tone which had begun gaining momentum and volume in the last five minutes, almost outpacing the speaker's ability to keep up.

"Such as your partner, Lt. Madison," Holmes finished. Madison did not protest, simply clenched her hands into fists and looked down into her lap.

"Sandeep was a friend of Sgt. Bishop's, as confirmed by Lt. Madison just now. You'd seen them together?"

"Yes," she answered quietly, tears straining her voice. "Yes, they knew each other back on Sandeep's colony. We ran into him a few times when we first got here. I didn't see him often; Sandeep liked to come to his doctor's appointments alone. But Sandeep mentioned him a few times, and we had lunch together once or twice. I never really thought twice about him."

"Most people didn't. Which was why he was a perfect siphon. Everybody remembered seeing him talking to various soldiers, but nobody knew what they talked about. You yourself, Lt. Madison, couldn't remember how Sandeep had found out about Chang Ku's or how you had come to hear of it. At some point, it can be assumed, Sgt. Bishop exposed his lover to the substance, or perhaps that is how they met in the first place. One night, almost two weeks ago, his lover went there to meet him, but was instead drugged insensate and removed to a _passazh._ He is actually a member of a prominent family, but due to his…sheltered lifestyle and his efforts to be discreet, he was not recognized and was assumed to be anonymous and friendless. A perfect target for a man such as Vasiliy. I can only imagine Sgt. Bishop was, ironically, unaware of the situation. They seemed genuinely attached; I can't imagine Bishop would have left his lover there knowingly to suffer such abuse. His lover's family was not welcoming to Bishop due to his gender, or perhaps because of their aversion to his military associations, as Captain Watson experienced for himself. No doubt they hid the matter from Bishop entirely.

"Here, I can only speculate, but I imagine it will hold up with further investigation. Sandeep was prompted into Shine usage, which you said made him unpredictable. Sandeep was already known to be a rather morose character, tending to avoid his problems. And so, Sandeep at some point, revealed that he had gotten his partner pregnant, outside of military regulations and that when it was discovered, as it very likely would be, they would both face tribunal and discharge. Depressed and easily led, Sandeep went to the Links the night he disappeared to once again indulge in escapism.

"But this was troubling to Sgt. Bishop. It took me a bit of wondering to figure out why, but when Watson was so good as to lend me the use of his VetMed-issued capsules, I realized that there was far more going on that just the Shine production. Shine is, by its chemical nature, rapidly wasting. Xue was losing valuable return customers and drawing no little attention to himself with the sudden growth in drug-related military deaths, as you yourself stated, Lestrade."

Lestrade grunted and shifted at this, which Holmes ignored. "Clearly, Xue needed a new narcotic, something not so virulent, something much more intense. So, Xue developed a new formula, this time using pre-existing stimulants known to cause hallucinations. But Xue is no common cooker, he's a scientist. Any scientist knows you need to conduct testing and utilize variable groups. Well, Xue had an entire _army_ to choose from. He picked those soldiers who had no family, no friends and injuries so severe that sudden death or illness wouldn't be questioned. Captain Watson, here, was one such man.

"Sandeep was another." Watson looked at Holmes, utterly shocked.

"You and Sandeep shared the same symptoms, although his were more advanced, and they were easy enough to pass off as PTSD, to somebody who was not specifically _looking_ for a pattern. Sgt. Bishop, as faithful recorder for the experiment and bought into silence by his dependence, kept faithful notes on the process, marking down which soldiers would make suitable candidates and which ones were experiencing adverse side effects. His files were just as easy to access for the very simple reason that he _made_ them so, unbeknownst to Xue. They were not password-protected, and would have been discovered during any upcoming file audits.

"Bishop knew of the experiment and, while uncomfortable with the idea, he was not moved to action until he discovered that Lt. Madison was pregnant. Such stimulant exposure, and Sandeep's increasingly erratic behavior, seemed likely to lead to injury, defect, or death for the child and its mother. This was something Sgt. Bishop could not stomach. Already dealing with the unexplained loss of his lover, and wracked with guilt, Bishop confronted the doctor. He threatened exposure, not just of the narcotics, but of the conspiracy to experiment on unwitting humans subjects. Xue killed Bishop, attempting to make it look like an overdose of Shine, just as he no doubt planned to do to Captain Watson in his office just now. The body was desecrated, no doubt by Vasiliy, who was used to such precautions, and then dumped into the ocean in the hope that it would wash _out_ to sea, rather than _in._"

Holmes stopped his monologue and Watson felt as if the power had just suddenly gone out. Holmes' sheer _presence_ during the explanation, the way all the mismatched events of the last few days had fallen together as he spoke, had filled the room. Now that he had stopped, it felt utterly empty.

Watson looked to Xue, gauging his reaction. Surprisingly, the doctor was utterly cool and confident, making no move to defend himself. In fact, his mouth had even quirked into a smile. It was the most expression Watson had seen since meeting the man, and that included during the attempt on his life.

"This is all very interesting, but it's just what you say: speculation. A theory."

"True enough," Holmes shrugged, peeved at the man's indifference. "But I imagine a search warrant obtained by E.I. Lestrade here for your files and bank records will no doubt prove me correct. Until then, you can sit in book."

Xue snorted. "For what?"

"Lestrade, did you or did you not see Dr. Xue attempting to assault Captain Watson just now?"

"I did."

"And in that syringe you pried from his grasp, I imagine you can test for a lethal dosage of Shine?"

"I can."

"Well then, attempted murder is probably a good charge. Doubtless to be joined by others as the investigation continues. Watson, I trust you will allow permission for these men to review your medical files kept by this man?"

"Oh," Watson said, startled. He had been so wrapped up in the momentum of it all, he had forgotten his own role in it, impossible as it seemed. "Of course. You have my consent."

"Excellent!" Holmes said, clapping his hands together. "It's all settled then."

"Not _all_ settled," Madison spoke quietly into the silence. Watson had honestly forgotten that she was even there. "What has happened to Sandeep?"

Holmes paused, looking as though he did not know how to continue, but soon gathered himself up and approached her. He knelt by her side and put a hand on hers.

"I'm very sorry to tell you that Sandeep is, without a doubt, dead." Madison's face fell, but she continued to stare at Holmes, her eyes wide and brimming.

"Sandeep went down to the Links that night and was at Chang Ku's. His jumpsuit was found in a pile of belongings at the _passazh_. He himself was not there. I can't imagine under what circumstance he would have survived and not come back to you."

The jumpsuit! Watson had just thrown it at Holmes without even looking at it, so ecstatic he had been about recovering his sidearm. It would have had Sandeep's name and serial number stenciled on the inside collar. Watson felt like an idiot for not having noticed. But Holmes was still talking.

"I imagine that the mixing of Shine and the experimental drugs he was on most likely caused an overdose. Probably a bizarrely spectacular one. Not wanting such an anomaly to be noticed by the Enforcers, they hid the body somewhere. This unfortunate death, and the love he knew you had for your child, no doubt was the reason Sgt. Bishop chose to come forward."

Holmes was trying to be kind, and Watson appreciated the gesture, but it meant little to Madison as she broke down in harsh, broken sobs while Xue was led out by Lestrade.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final Part. For disclaimers, warnings, and notes, see Chapter 1.

The next few days passed by in a blur for Watson. He was detained at the VetMed and later on at the Enforcement Post for hours, filing statements and complaints against Xue. Holmes was there as well in the periphery, filling in gaps for the grudgingly admiring Lestrade with a lopsided smirk and an extremely self-satisfied posture as he leaned against a desk, ankles and arms crossed. Watson didn't pay too much attention to Holmes' recap, having been there for much of it. He was busy perusing his own file.

The effort had an air of morbidity to it; his enlistment photo was attached to the file and to see who he once had been, compared to his more recent triage photos and scans, was like reading the life of a stranger. Twenty-four seemed impossibly far away. Watson looked at the bits of his file he could read, seeing the notes and bookmarks made by the, indeed very thorough, Sergeant. Lines such as "candidate", "physical condition precludes discovery" and "no reported effects" labeled him as something "other" even more. It made him angry, to see his life, his struggles and pain, so callously categorized and filed, the liberties taken with it. He hadn't realized how much he missed his own vitality, until he had seen how pathetically lifeless he could look to an outsider's eyes.

After filling out all the forms, and seeing Xue booked in to the hold, Holmes had stridently announced that he and Watson were heading home. Lestrade's twitchy head jerked up at the word "home" and he cast an even more intrigued, if less suspicious look at Watson. The pair walked back towards home, Holmes' steps light and energetic and Watson's extremely exhausted.

"If you don't mind me saying, _aibou_, you seem subdued despite our one-two victory. I would think you would be happy to have all the loose ends tied up."

"Are they?" Watson asked, pointedly.

"What else could there be?"

"That's what I'm asking. Are we going to get home to find a long-lost brother to Sgt. Bishop? Is there a partner to Vasiliy that you are setting some trap for? Am I going to discover that we're headed to the other side of the planet on some new errand? Because this time last night, I already thought we were finished."

"Watson-kun, I apologize for not including you in the plan, but I needed an opportunity to go through Xue's files, and I couldn't do it if I couldn't be assured of his distraction for the appropriate amount of time…"

"You could have said something to me! Warned me!"

"Watson, we've already established that you're a horrible liar."

"That's not an excuse!" Watson stopped walking, the streets thankfully bare despite the arched streetlamps casting them in a haloed glow.

"Watson," Holmes shot back, as if talking to an tantruming brat, patient and condescending. It infuriated Watson. "The fact of the matter is we've only known each other for a few days. While I'll admit that we seemed to have a…kindred spirit from the beginning," Watson was amazed that the man didn't even blush at the statement, "I didn't know you. You seemed perfectly agreeable, companionable, polite, and upright. Under normal circumstances, I would have hated you on principle. But from the moment we met, you intrigued me, for reasons that even I would be hard-pressed to explain. But I was waiting for the sucker punch. If I had told you your friend was dead, that the man responsible for your poisoning was going to be sitting across from you, I couldn't be sure how you would react. I don't _like_ surprises; I couldn't risk an unforeseen reaction on your part ruining my plans."

"I'm an adult, Holmes! I have my own will and I make my own choices. If that doesn't fit into your _plans_, so be it!"

Watson knew he would regret these things, even as he said them. He had learned in a very short amount of time that he had been duped and used, both by his doctor and by his friend. Choosing to take his anger out on the latter because he couldn't on the former, Watson was ignoring the very real fact that, in doing what he had done, Holmes had saved his life and most likely his sanity.

"You were in no danger. I took the precaution of calling in Lestrade beforehand, to be ready to arrest Xue or to intervene if he had become noncompliant."

"Oh, _thanks_!" Watson's rage began bubbling all over again, boiling even hotter due to the highly insulted look on Holmes' face.

"It needed to be done! I can throw around theories all I like, but it means nothing if I don't have proof."

"Even if you have to put more people in danger to get it?"

"Yes," he responded, his voice uncertain.

"Who _thinks_ like that?" Watson shouted at him, exasperated. They would get nowhere like this--somehow managing to speak the same words without speaking the same language.

"If you hadn't stupidly tried to overplay your part and had just gotten the caps according to the plan…" Holmes accused.

"I didn't KNOW the plan!" Watson countered, beginning to feel as though this schtick would go on forever. "You were being no help, just sending me out on busy errands. You weren't showing the slightest interest in finding Sandeep, so I felt like I had to take matters into my own hands."

Here, Holmes' face twisted sneeringly, almost ugly. "Oh yes. Sandeep, and your great concern for his welfare…" Sarcasm practically painted the words.

"Do you want to know what I think?" Holmes said, furious and intent.

"No." Watson turned away from Holmes and began limping onward towards the park ahead. A right turn there would take them to the ramp-way leading down to the dock.

"Tough!" Holmes stridently yelled after him, matching his pace to Watson's once he caught up. "You've been fixated on helping a man you don't even _like_ just so that you can play the knight in shining armor to a woman you don't even love."

"Stop it."

"You've been getting yourself pummeled twice a day trying to be the answer to her problems. If I didn't know you better--and I _do_ know you better--I would think you wanted to take his place."

Watson whirled on the taller man, his face mere inches from his, his breath coming short and angry as he looked at Holmes' face. The other man had schooled his features into disdain, his eyebrow lifting, daring Watson to deny it. Watson's fists clenched and, even though he was in a weakened state and this Holmes character could _fight_ when he needed to, he desperately wanted to punch him.

"You, John Watson," Holmes said, his voice lowered to a terrible, knowing declaration, "Have an almost pathological need to feel useful. To be the hero. It's a role for which you are unqualified…"

Holmes looked like he was about to continue, but Watson didn't want to hear anymore.

"Enough!" he shouted, lifting his hand up, before restraining it with every ounce of will that he had. "Enough."

And with that, he had turned and strode back toward the dock, passing an automatic street-sanitizer as he went. Holmes eventually caught up with him again, and the two returned to the dock in silence.

They had only seen each other sporadically over the next few days. Holmes hadn't thrown him out, but now they had taken to pretending they were new roommates, asking each other before using any of the facilities, not talking while watching 'casts, buying their own food. Watson found himself missing their easy camaraderie and their back and forth exchanges. Several times he had thought to make the opportunity to apologize, but it was hard to find the time between the legal case, visits to a newer doctor to see to the damage Watson had managed to accrue over the investigation, and attending Madison's tribunal.

Three days after Xue attempted to kill him, Watson found himself back at his old hostel, searching through his kit. He hadn't yet moved out, but nor was he eager to move back in. Sandeep's funeral was in three hours, and Watson needed to fish out his dress uniform. He hadn't worn it in over a year and it hung on his frame unflatteringly. While he finished putting on all of the finery, he heard a knock at the slider.

"Madison," Watson greeted, surprised. She was not wearing her uniform, disastrous as the Tribunal had gone.

"Hey, Watson," she said, voice brittle. She had gone out to buy a black dress to wear to the funeral, and looked beautiful, even in her misery.

"How are you doing?"

"Oh, all right. It feels wrong; to have a funeral for him without a body. I would have thought, if that were going to happen, it would be because he was still on New Apolla somewhere. Not here. We were supposed to be safe here. You're going to the funeral?" She nodded to his uniform.

"Yes. Although, I'm glad I ran into you before. I wanted to give you something." He walked toward her, putting his hand in hers. When he pulled it away, there was a bright anonymous slider in hers, wired for a substantial amount of creds. Holmes had insisted, when Yoshiro-san had sent her assistant to render payment, on having it split in half for Watson's use.

But the thought of poor, weak Jenski being the unwitting accomplice to his lover's ruination, of Sandeep leaving behind a similar selfish legacy for poor Madison, of the unknown but identical wretches left behind to rot and fester in the basement of the Desal plant, made it impossible for Watson to accept it without feeling ill.

"Watson!" she cried out, breathless.

"Don't scan it until I'm gone. You'll take every bit of it. You need it more than I do. You and…" he trailed off.

"Jaden Jr. JJ."

"JJ it is." Watson smiled, feeling at least a little bit lighter, despite the heaviness of the day.

"Thank you, so much," she said, tearily, stepping boldly forward to embrace him. Watson could smell her perfume and for a moment, just a brief moment, he thought about what could have been, before resolving never to think on it again.

"And be sure to thank Mr. Holmes, too," she added into his shoulder. "When you see him again."

* * *

The funeral was solemn and dignified, a full military service: orders read, rifled salute, a flag and his patches presented to Madison. There was no casket, Sandeep's body never having been found despite an intense Enforcement search. It would turn up someday. Or not.

Halfway through, Watson felt a presence at his side, tingling at the edge of his senses. Standing at attention, he couldn't slide his eyes to the left like he wanted to, but he knew even still that it was Holmes. Later, when the service was over and Sandeep's name was being laser etched into the memorial wall, people were milling about, offering condolences to Madison. Watson watched from afar, oddly content, knowing that Madison would be alright.

Himself, however…

"It was a lovely service," Watson said. Holmes was practically attached to his side, looking utterly awkward and out of place in the sea of uniforms while wearing an elegant, if cheap, black suit.

"Yes," Holmes responded. "Madison told me what you did. It was very…noble."

"It was the least I could do. You might have been able to accomplish what Yoshiro-san asked of you, but I wasn't so successful."

"It would have been almost impossible to be, _aibou._ Sandeep was likely dead long before Madison even thought to ask you for help. Though I will say," Holmes turned to him, "I'm glad that she did. Your…help has been invaluable."

"Thank you, Holmes." They stood in silence for a few moments. "Still, I wish I could've done something more. Could have at least found Sandeep or confirmed he was dead."

"Even if he somehow managed not to be, I think Madison will be better off accepting the idea that he is. Better to live on believing somebody to be dead, than to know they've left you to continue on elsewhere."

Watson couldn't have disagreed more. If Watson were in love, even the bitterness of abandonment was better, if it meant knowing they were alive. But Holmes and Watson were two different men, and it would be foolish to forget that, no matter how this all turned out.

"I've been thinking…" Holmes began, cautiously, the midday sun turning his pale skin a bright pink.

"God help us all," Watson snorted good-naturedly, as Holmes butted their shoulders together in teasing rebuke.

"I have the tendency to get lost in a case, as you've noticed. If it means that I end up putting my own pride before the needs of my client, before the needs of my friend, it's a part of me that I'm not particularly proud of." It was a clumsy attempt at an apology, but it was a start. It deserved encouragement, and there were several things Watson had been wanting to say over the last few days.

"My life has changed a lot in the last two months. I had thought, had hoped, I would be able to adapt to these changes with better grace than I have. But it's been hard. These last few days have been…reinvigorating. If I let my gratitude get lost in my grief, it isn't what I want." Holmes' finely featured face seemed to relax at the words, the sharp planes stretching into an almost boyish look of contentment.

They were comfortably silent, happy to listen to the murmurs around them and the sound of waves crashing off in the distance. It was Holmes who broke the silence, surprisingly.

"What I said to you, the other day, about being unqualified to be a hero. That wasn't what I meant. You have very many heroic qualities, Watson-kun, most of which make you a better man than me. But, I sense that you are a man who doesn't like to be alone and for whom being useful is the very cornerstone of heroism."

Watson wasn't sure he liked Holmes analyzing him so baldly, or what the analysis implied about Watson himself, but he couldn't disagree with the assessment.

"So, I was wondering if you would--if things with your commission go as you expect them to--if you would like…"

"Yes?"

"To be useful to me."

Holmes wouldn't ask. He would demand, would presume, would finagle, would abstain if the previous didn't work, but he would never ask.

They were surrounded by a literal army of people, the soldiers pressing in on them from several sides. Despite this, Watson felt completely isolated from them, no longer a dying part of a whole. He and Holmes were alone now, against the world. He had no plans, no trajectory, no future. But, it no longer felt like a looming abyss, but rather an opportunity. Possibilities. No expectations, except the ones he made for himself.

All he could do was smile and nod, tired and exhausted, but utterly light.

"Well, _yokatta_ for that. Mrs. Hudson found out about the spectral experiments I've been conducting in the house, and was surprisingly aware of the adverse effects of chemical solvents on plastisteel and Glasstech. She has raised my rent again, evil wench, and I don't know how I would manage it without you."

"Well, I suppose it's good that I closed out my account at the hostel and dropped my stuff at the house on the way here, then," Watson replied, no small part satisfied at getting one over on Holmes, as the taller man barked a laugh, tossing an arm over his shoulder.

* * *

That night found them upstairs in Holmes' bedroom after eating Mrs. Hudson's casserole and fighting over the threed programming. The night had grown late, although it was still relatively early. Holmes had announced loudly and intentionally that he was going to head upstairs to go to bed.

_Not_ 'catch some sleep', but 'go to bed'.

Watson had seen it for the invitation it was. Even with Holmes now knowing the reason behind Watson's outburst during their previous disastrous attempt, there had been the case to focus on, and then their strained post-fight stand-off. But it seemed Holmes was just as eager to continue as he had implied.

"I think I'll join you."

Holmes had "cleaned" to make room for Watson; his clothes now piled in only _one_ corner, the futon covers recently washed, food wrappers finally discarded. Holmes didn't know it yet, but Watson had grand plans for the downstairs as well.

Watson looked at the bed; already having experienced it, he couldn't wait to be comfortable again.

Holmes approached him, already nude and partially erect. Watson felt apprehension as his clothes (finally his own), seemed to weigh him down. He laughed sheepishly at the disparity. He slowly disrobed, pants and boots first, then reaching down again to grab the hem of the T-shirt. The scar on his left hip, a deep, pocked gouge, was visible, but Watson tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about how much more would be visible soon.

He was startled when Holmes' hands rested on his own, arresting his momentum. Quirking his lips, his eyes shiningly intent, Holmes gently batted Watson's hands aside, grabbing the hem himself. Watson felt the fabric brush against his chest, against the two scars on his abdomen, near his lower ribs, and rub against the still angry scar in his shoulder as he lifted his arms to ease the shirt's passage. Holmes removed the shirt and Watson felt the insane urge to fold it, to set it aside somewhere: something, *anything* to break Holmes' laser-focused gaze. Holmes tossed the clothes aside, however, the items ending up mixed with Holmes' on his laundry pile.

Holmes leaned forward, bending his considerable height to brush his lips against the scar on his shoulder. It tingled fiercely, and Watson wasn't sure if it was due to the ruined flesh, to arousal, or to some mixture of both. He threw his head back at the sensation of it. Holmes took the invitation to move his mouth higher, brushing lips over the expanse of his neck, nipping the flesh as he went.

It was delightful. Watson didn't want it to end, no longer fearing the drumbeat echo of his heart in his ears. But his legs were still weak, weaker still after the abuse accrued over the days. Holmes once again intuited this, and maneuvered them toward the bed as his lips met Watson's, growing in passion and fierceness. The distance from standing to laying was considerable due to the lowness of the futon, and Watson's leg twinged when they fell. But, Watson wasn't a passive lover; he happily accepted Holmes' weight atop him, grasping the other man's hips to rub sensuously against his own, their kisses open-mouthed, sloppy and loud in the darkness. Holmes' lips wandered from mouth to ear, as Watson reached his hand as far around Holmes as he could to rub his fingers along the crease of the other man's buttocks.

"Watson!" Holmes purred, affecting being scandalized, but his hips pushed even harder. Watson's abs twitched. He was exhausted, his muscles still so very weak, his ribs no doubt protruding through his leathered, ruined skin. But Holmes was gazing at him with a possessiveness that he had never known, making him feel as handsome as he had been at 21. Holmes paused the snapping of his hips, causing Watson to whine in frustration.

"Patience, Watson-kun," Holmes smiled smugly, dropping a chaste quick kiss to his lips. Holmes' very mobile mouth went to good use, following the line of Watson's shattered collarbone to brush along the inside of his bicep, a fantastically sensitive spot. Holmes' thumb brushed along Watson's regimental tattoo on his outer bicep as he did it, and Watson lifted his good leg to hook over Holmes' skinny hip, brushing his foot against whatever bit of Holmes' legs he could reach.

Holmes continued his explorations, taking care around the still healing flesh of his scars. It wasn't long 'til Watson felt the moisture of his mouth around his cock. The warmth and suction was intense. Watson's hips bucked up weakly, fingers clenching in Holmes' hair, his gasps loud and desperate.

"Holmes, wait I…" He was too close. It was too much, too soon after so long without. He came, Holmes taking it as long as he could stand, before he had to pull away. Clearly, Watson was not the only one out of practice. Watson's whole body clenched, and his heart stopped, feeling like he was being squeezed from the top down. He laid there, waiting for his legs and abdomen to stop shaking.

After a few moments, he opened his eyes to see Holmes straddling him, eyebrow lifted and the smuggest expression yet gracing his face. His cock was still erect, and his breathing still labored.

"Holmes, I'm sorry, let me…"

"No, no, Watson-kun. You're tired and I'm not sure you have the strength yet for anything more…vigorous. It hardly matters. There will be other opportunities," Holmes smiled.

"Besides," Holmes said, swinging his leg back over Watson to gracefully roll onto his back at Watson's side. Taking himself in hand, he winked: "You've seen how much I enjoy an audience."

* * *

It was full dark when Watson woke up, Holmes having neglected to turn on the ceiling tube lights, using only a small phosphor lamp on a nearby table. The man himself stood shamelessly naked across the room, staring intently at the impromptu diagram etched onto the wall. Holmes had added Xue and Vasiliy's images to some of the outlying lines of the chart. Its complexity thoroughly evaded Watson's well-fucked mind.

He propped himself up on his elbow, laying on his side. His vision was still blurry after so long asleep. Holmes either ignored Watson's wakefulness, or didn't notice it.

"Clumsy."

"What?"

"Xue was a brilliant chemist and a fairly passable doctor, despite his tendency to poison his patients. He is definitely cunning and ruthless, but I don't know if I honestly believe he has the capability to think on so grandiose a scale. Obtaining such ingredients, manufacturing them, recruiting dregs for legwork, living an alternate life. I find it hard to believe that he managed it alone." Holmes paused, his face still turned away from Watson, leaving Watson to guess what was not being said.

"You think he had help."

"I think he _was_ the help. There is a bigger picture here, a higher, villainous power; something that gave Xue the resources and opportunity to carry out his crimes. If only I could decipher it." His voice was ponderous and distracted, but not yet fully enthralled. Best to intervene now, before it was too late.

"Can it wait for tomorrow, Holmes?"

Holmes turned toward Watson, his gaze raking along Watson's also nude form just barely visible in outline through the blanket. His grin spread as his eyes narrowed. "Yes, I think it can."

**END**


End file.
